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JOHN  AND  MARY; 


OR, 


THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVES, 


a.  Qlole  of 


SOUTH-EASTERN  PENNSYLVANIA. 


By  ELLWOOD  GRIEST. 


WRITTEN  ORIGINALLY  FOR  THE  LANCASTER  INQUIRER. 


i 


LANCASTER,  PA.: 

INQUIRER  PRINTING  AND   PUBLISHING   COMPANY. 
1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

ELLWOOD  GRIEST, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


\ 


TO  THE  MEMOHY 

OF 

QL\)c   i^ricnbs   of  mp   (CI)ili)l)oob, 

AVHOSE   ACTS   IT   HAS   OIVKX   MK   SITH    IKPIMTE  PLEASURE  TO  RECORD, 

Cbis  Jittlc   Uoliunc  is  r»rbcvfnllij  Jlctiuntrb 

13V  THE  Al'TJIOK. 


The  following  story,  originally  written  for  the 
Lancaster  Inquirer,  is  founded  on  facts  that  came 
within  the  personal  knowledge  of  the  writer.  The 
characters  described  are  all  real  ones,  as  will  be  attested 
by  many  of  the  older  inhabitants,  yet  living  in  the 
region  of  country  where  the  events  described  occurred. 
Belonging  to  a  generation  of  people  and  a  condition 
of  society  that  are  rapidly  passing  away,  they  cannot 
fail  to  excite  an  interest  in  the  minds  of  those  who, 
living  under  totally  different  influences,  learn  of  them 
only  through  others.  The  narrative  of  John  and  Mary, 
or  rather  of  Mary  and  her  child,  is  founded  strictly  on 
facts,  and  resulted  from  a  state  of  society  that  has 
passed  away  forever.  Whatever  faithfully  describes 
the  influences  and  results  of  the  institution  of  slavery, 
must  -become  more  and  more  interesting  to  the  present 
generation,  and  in  the  hope  that  this  little  volume  will 
in  a  measure  meet  this  growing  want,  the  writer  has 
consented  to  its  publication  in  the  present  form.  That 
some  pleasure  and  profit  may  result  to  the  reader  from 
its  perusal  is  the  earnest  desire  of 

The  Author. 


JOHN  AND  MARY, 

THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE   OCTORARA. 

"  Stream  of  my  fathers  !   sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valleys  fill  ; 
Poui  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood  and  spire  beneath  them  smile." 

Skirting  the  south-eastern  border  of  Lancaster, 
county,  Pennsylvania,  where  it  forms  the  dividing  Hne 
between  that  and  Chester  county,  is  the  Octorara 
creek.  It  is  a  beautiful  and  romantic  stream,  and  after 
the  union  of  its  eastern  and  western  branches,  attains 
considerable  size.  Along  its  banks  can  be  found 
almost  every  variety  of  scenery  ;  'and  every  descrip- 
tion of  romantic  and  picturesque  beauty.  The  stream 
itself  is  a  study  for  the  lover  of  Nature,  who  would 
never  tire  in  contemplating  it.  Now  it  spreads  out 
a  broad  bright  sheet  of  glassy  surface,  glowing  like 
burnished  silver,  as  it  reflects  the  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  or  glistens  beneath  the  full  moon's  rich 
flood  of  glorious  light ;  while  slowly,  silently  and 
almost  imperceptibly  it  moves  forward.  Again  it 
rushes  madly  down  some  deep  ravine,  leaping  wildly 
from  rock  to  rock  and  dashing  its  white  foam  in 

7 


8  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

every  direction,  as  though  it  bore  a  message  whose 
supreme  importance  Nature  herself  had  recognized. 
Sometimes  it  traverses  a  deep  forest,  where  for  miles 
the  mighty  oak  and  the  kingly  pine,  with  their 
broad-spreading  branches  intertwined,  almost  shut 
out  the  light  of  day  ;  while  the  whispered  murmur 
of  the  waters  seems  like  the  sigh  of  some  hopeless 
spirit  wafted  from  the  darkness  of  the  unknown. 

Again  emerging,  it  threads  some  green  meadow, 
reflecting  the  blue  heavens  above,  and  the  wild 
flowers  and  beautiful  verdure  that  skirt  its  borders. 
Here  and  there  is  a  mill-dam  that  turns  the  ma- 
chinery that  grinds  the  grain  for  the  neighboring 
farmers;  while  over  its  breast  glides  a  broad  sheet 
of  water,  which,  falling  some  distance,  forms  a  minia- 
ture Niagara,  whose  roar  can  be  heard  for  miles 
away  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  or  early  morning, 
and  whose  voice  reaches  far  and  wide  when  the 
usually  placid  stream  swells  into  an  angry  flood. 

One  cannot  but  remark  the  partiality  always-felt 
toward  a  stream  of  water  by  those  who  dwell  upon 
its  borders.  Nothing  furnishes  such  solace  for 
their  leisure  hours  as  a  stroll  along  its  banks.  For 
them  it  has  some  ever  present  attraction  which  re- 
tains its  freshness  as  long  as  life  endures. 

Forty  years  ago  or  more,  the  period  at  which 
our  story  commences,  the  Octorara,  or  that  part  of 
it  between  the  junction  of  the  two  branches  and  the 
Maryland  line,  was  wilder  and  m.ore  romantic  than 
at  the  present  day.  The  deep,  unbroken  forests 
that  then  lined  its  banks  have  been  partly  cleared 
away.     Houses  have  been  erected  where  there  was 


THE    OCTORARA.  9 

undisturbed  solitude,  lands  cleared  and  cultivated 
and  water  power  made  available  where  then  no 
sound  of  industry  disturbed  the  stillness  of  nature. 

Still,  at  that  time,  it  was  by  no  means  an  unset- 
tled section  of  country.  Public  highways  leading 
north  and  south  crossed  the  stream  at  intervals, 
which  was  passable  for  all  kinds  of  vehicles  at  any 
of  the  fords,  except  when  swollen  by  rains  or  ren- 
dered impassable  by  ice,  which  was  often  the  case 
during  the  winter  season. 

Much  of  the  land  along  this  stream  was  even 
then  noted  for  its  fertility,  and  though  farming  was 
laborious,  owing  to  the  land  being  rugged  and 
hilly,  it  yielded  a  fair  return  to  industry  and  skill. 

If  our  readers  will  glance  at  a  map  of  Lancaster 
county  they  will  see,  in  the  southern  part  of  Little 
Britain  township,  a  ford  of  the  Octorara  marked  as 
**  People's  ford,"  possibly  from  some  one  of  that 
name  having  once  dwelt  there.  At  the  time  of 
which  we  speak,  it  was  called  "  Brown's  ford,"  and 
a  family  of  that  name  resided  there. 

As  the  surroundings  of  this  place  will  be  of  some 
interest  to  us  in  the  progress  of  our  story,  we  shall 
proceed  to  give  a  brief  description  of  them. 

The  road,  crossing  at  this  ford,  led  north  and 
south,  and  was  mainly  used,  besides  neighborhood 
traveling,  by  persons  hauling  lime  from  Quarry- 
ville  and  vicinity,  to  points  farther  south  ;  some  to 
parts  of  Chester  county,  and  others  to  Cecil  county, 
Maryland,  which  was  but  a  few  miles  distant.  The 
ford  was  safe  and  easily  crossed  when  the  creek 
was  low,  but  dangerous  when  it  was  swollen. 


lO  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Indeed,  legends  prevailed  of  men  and  women, 
who,  too  venturesome,  had  attempted  crossing  at 
such  times  and  been  swept  away  in  the  devouring 
flood.  We  cannot  verify  these  stories,  but  do  not 
doubt  their  accuracy. 

The  southern  bank  of  the  stream  at  this  place, 
both  above  and  below  the  ford,  was  crowned  with 
high  hills,  covered  with  a  thick  undergrowth  of 
dogwood,  honeysuckle  and  laurel,  while  high  above 
these  towered  almost  every  variety  of  oak,  pine  and 
other  forest  trees.  Here,  during  the  spring  time, 
were  myriads  upon  myriads  of  feathered  songsters, 
who  sought  these  forest-crowned  hills  to  build 
their  nests  and  rear  their  young,  and  from  earli- 
est dawn  to  dewy  eve,  they  mingled  their  sweet 
warblings  with  the  gentle  murmurings  of  the  stream 
below. 

Just  above  the  ford,  on  the  southern  side,  a  little 
brook  entered  the  creek.  It  had  its  source  some 
half-mile  away,  in  a  south-easterly  direction.  Along 
its  eastern  bank,  for  some  three  or  four  hundred 
yards  from  where  it  mingled  its  waters  with  the 
larger  stream,  arose  a  mighty  hill,  covered  with 
laurel  and  crowned  with  majestic  oaks.  This  was 
called  "  Laurel  hill,"  and  when  in  bloom,  in  early 
summer,  was  such  a  picture  of  beauty  as  the  human 
eye  seldom  rests  upon. 

Three-fourths  of  a  mile  below  was  another  cross- 
ing, known  as  '*  Carter's,  "where  a  bridge  has 
since  been  erected.  This  was  reached  from  the 
place  we  have  been  describing  by  a  rough  and 
narrow  road,  which,  branching  from  the  main  one 


THE    OCTORARA.  II 

some  50  yards  from  the  creek,  threaded  a  dark 
wood  for  nearly  half  the  distance,  ascended  a  steep 
hill,  and  descending  a  similar  one  reached  Carter's 
mill   just  at  its  foot  and  close  by  the  ford. 

The  dwelling  in  which  the  Browns  of  Brown's 
fording  resided  was  situated  about  50  yards  from 
the  creek,  and  exactly  at  the  point  where  the  road 
to  Carter's  ford  branched  off  from  the  main  road 
leading  south.  It  consisted  of  a  one-and-a-half 
story  log  house,  built  at  an  early  period  of  the  set- 
tlement of  the  country,  and  a  brick  end  which  had 
been  added  by  the  proprietor.  The  lower  story  of 
the  log  end  constituted  the  kitchen,  which  was 
ample,  after  the  fashion  of  the  olden  time,  and 
contained  among  other  things  the  old-fashioned 
"  kitchen  dresser"  on  whose  open  shelves  the  pew- 
ter plates  and  spoons  glistened  with  repeated  scour- 
ings ;  the  "  knife  box"  hanging  against  the  wall 
beneath  the  lower  shelf,  where  knives  and  forks 
were  all  carefully  deposited  after  being  as  carefully 
washed  and  scoured,  while  all  around  the  room 
were  hung  various  kinds  of  bags  and  boxes  con- 
taining things  for  present  and  future  use.  There 
stands  the  old-fashioned  fire-place,  up  whose  mighty 
throat  the  great  fire  roared  and  crackled  with  a 
consumption  of  fuel  that  would  never  be  tolerated 
at  the  present  day.  Just  as  you  enter  the  kitchen 
you  can  see  to  the  right  a  door  which,  opening,  dis- 
closes a  flight  of  steps  descending  into  the  cellar, 
which  is  large  and  deep.  Above  the  kitchen  are 
two  sleeping  rooms  and  above  these  a  garret  of 
the  real  old-fashioned  pattern.     In  the  other  end, 


12  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

if  we  should  pass  in,  we  could  see  a  good  sized 
parlor,  without  carpet  of  any  description,  but  with 
an  oaken  floor  scoured  as  white  as  soap  and  pewter 
sand  would  make  it;  a  half-dozen  Windsor  chairs, 
two  arm-chairs,  a  couple  of  tables,  a  Yankee 
clock,  one  looking-glass  and  a  fire-place  much  less 
than  the  one  we  have  just  examined.  Over  the 
parlor  are  two  sleeping  rooms,  while  a  flight  of 
stairs  leads  both  to  them  and  a  room  in  the  other 
end. 

Leaving  the  house  we  cross  the  main  road  lead- 
ing by  the  door,  and  look  at  the  log  shop  where 
the  Browns  carry  on  wagon-making.  This  is  a 
small  building  with  a  ground  floor.  In  front  is  a 
large  sycamore  tree  which  gives  ample  shade  when 
shade  is  needed,  while  behind  it  is  a  magnificent 
maple  in  whose  thick  foliage  many  a  merry  bird 
has  built  her  nest  and  brought  forth  her  young 
unharmed. 

Just  below  the  shop,  and  at  the  base  of  "  Laurel 
hill,"  is  the  spring-house,  to  which  a  well-kown 
path  leads,  for  there  is  the  spring,  which  never 
failing  in  summer's  heat  or  winter's  cold,  fur- 
nishes a  supply  of  as  pure,  sweet  water  as  ever 
quenched  human  thirst. 

Up  the  main  road  from  the  house  stands  the 
barn,  some  75  yards  away  ;  it  is  a  small  frame 
building,  with  one  threshing  floor,  and  scarcely  suf- 
ficient room  to  store  away  the  products  of  the 
small  farm.  If  you  look  carefully  you  will  see  a 
pair  of  flails,  hanging  up  in  the  corner,  that  are 
used   for   threshing ;    machines  for  that   purpose 


THE   OCTORARA.  1 3 

being  unknown  in  that  section  in  those  days.  The 
two  pieces  of  wood  which  compose  each  one  are 
tied  together  with  dried  eel-skin,  that  being  con- 
sidered the  very  best  article  for  the  purpose  that 
can  be  obtained. 

Leaving  the  barn  and  wandering  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  in  front  of  it,  we  see  the  orchard — apple 
and  peach.  It  is  early  autumn  and  but  few  peaches 
are  left,  but  the  wealth  of  the  rich,  beautiful  apples 
as  they  cluster  on  the  heavily-laden  boughs,  form 
a  picture  of  beauty  such  as  seldom  meets  the  eye. 

Looking  beyond  you  can  see  in  the  distance 
glimpses  of  the  "pine  barrens,"  and  of  these  we 
will  now  speak. 

To  the  south,  soutli-east  and  south-west  of  Brown's 
ford,  beginning  but  little  more  than  a  mile  away, 
lay  thousands  and  thousands   of  acres   of  land,  to 
which  no  one  at  that  time  possessed  a  title.       The 
land  was  mostly  grown  up  with  pine  and  scrub- 
oak,  or  black  jack,  and  in  summer  time  was    used 
as  pasture  land  for  the  cattle  of  many  small  farmers 
who  lived  near.     At  such  times  it  would  be  dotted 
over  with  small  herds  of  cattle,  one  in   each   herd 
wearing  a  bell,  the  sound  of  which  was  well-known 
to  the  owner  or  his  boys,  who   went  out  to  hunt 
them  if  they  did  not  return  at  the  proper   time. 
This  th^y  mostly  did,  and  as  th2  suTin^r  sun  ap- 
proached   the    western    horizon    you    could   see 
numerous  small  herds  of  cattle,  each  led  by  the 
"bell  cow,"  wending  their  way  quietly  toward  their 
homes. 

Here  and  there  all  through  this  wilderness  stood 


14  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

the  log  hut  of  a  negro,  and  sometimes  of  a  white 
man,  built  of  pine  logs  and  covered  with  boards  or 
slabs  of  the  same  material.  Hard  by  was  a  small 
lot  or  clearing,  fenced  in  and  used  for  a  garden. 
The  occupants  of  these  huts  picked  up  a  subsistence 
by  working  by  the  day  for  farmers  in  Lancaster, 
Chester  and  Cecil  counties ;  and  sometimes  in 
winter  by  chopping  wood,  threshing  with  the  flail, 
dressing  flax  and  other  pursuits  of  a  similar  char- 
acter. 

In  autumn  the  people  who  lived  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  barrens  appropriated  a  day  or  two  to  hunting 
up  and  hauling  home  pine  knots  for  winter  use. 
These  pine  knots  were  the  hearts  of  pine  trees  that 
had  fallen  and  the  outside  decayed,  leaving  the 
heart  or  knot,  which  was  very  inflammable  and 
burned  for  a  long  time,  producing  a  fine  light. 

All  through  the  barrens  these  could  be  found, 
sometimes  in  great  quantities  together,  and  when 
taken  home  and  properly  prepared  by  being  split 
up,  they  served  as  kindling  and  as  a  means  of  giv- 
ing light  during  the  long  winter  evenings.  Placed 
on  the  kitchen  fire  in  the  wide,  old-fashioned  fire- 
place, a  good  sized  pine  knot  would  give  all  the 
light  that  was  needed  in  the  room.  The  old  folks 
could  read  the  papers,  the  girls  wash  dishes  or 
spin,  and  the  children  learn  their  lessons  by  this 
light  without  difficulty. 

But  our  readers  have  not  yet  been  introduced  to 
any  of  the  characters  of  our  story.  That  pleasure 
we  reserve  for  our  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER   II. 


THE    BROWNS   AND   THEIR   NEIGHBORS. 

"  Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  flight.     The  race  of  yore, 
Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee 
And  told  our  wondering  boyhood  legend's  store  ; 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  things  that  be  ! '' 

The  Brown  family,  who  resided  in  the  house  we 
have  described  at  the  ford,  consisted  at  the  time  of 
the  commencement  ofour  story,  of  six  persons:  the 
father  and  mother,  three  children,  and  a  young  man 
about  1 8  years  of  age,  named  Samuel  Weaver,  an 
apprentice  to  the  wagon-making  business.  The  fath- 
er, William  Brown,  or  as  he  was  familiarly  known 
among  his  neighbors,  "  Billy  Brown,"  was  about  42 
years  of  age,  and  the  two  elder  children  were  his  by  a 
former  marriage.  Their  mother,  after  a  few  brief 
years  of  married  life,  had  passed  away,  and  been 
quietly  and  sorrowfully  laid  in  the  grave-yard  at  the 
Friends'  Meeting-house,  a  few  miles  distant.  The 
elder  child,  a  girl,  was  some  18  years  of  age  and 
bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  her  father  ;  her  name 
was  Martha.  Her  brother.,  named  Henry,  was  two 
year  her  junior,  and,  the  neighbors  said,  favored 
his  deceased  mother.  Margaret  Brown,  the  pre- 
sent wife  of  William,  was  some  years  his  junior, 
and  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak  was  probably 
about  35  years  of  age.  Her  only  child,  a  boy  of 
six  or  seven  years,  named  Frank,  made  up  the 
sixth  and  last  member  of  the  family. 

William,  or  ''  Billy  Brown,"   as  we   shall  some- 
times hereafter  call  him,  was  one  of  those  remark- 

15 


1 6  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

able  men,  physically,  who  seem  to  belong  to  a  past 
age.  He  was  about  six  feet  high,  lacking  probably 
half  an  inch,  and,  without  an  ounce  of  superfluous 
flesh,  weighing  190  pounds.  His  shoulders  were 
broad,  and  rounded  very  slightly,  his  chest  deep 
and  ample,  and  his  limbs  muscular  and  well  formed. 
He  seemed  born  to  accomplish  whatever  was  (physi- 
cally) within  the  bounds  of  possibility. 

His  ancestors  had  come  over  from  England  with 
William  Penn,  at  the  first  Quaker  settlement  at 
Philadelphia,  and  every  branch  of  the  family's  de- 
scendants had  retained  their  connection  with  that 
sect. 

But  to  look  at  "  Billy,"  without  taking  note  of 
his  apparel,  one  would  scarcely  put  him  down  as 
belonging  to  that  staid  and  quiet  society.  His 
small  gray  eyes,  deep-set  in  his  head,  had  about 
them  a  fun-loving  twinkle  which  told  that  merri- 
ment, and  even  hilarity,  were  in  no  way  repulsive 
to  his  feelings  ;  while  his  curly  black  hair,  which 
fell  in  glossy  ringlets  over  the  straight,  stiff  collar 
of  his  Quaker  coat,  was  a  reminder  that  nature  had 
not  designed  him  to  live  in  a  world  whose  only 
color  was  drab. 

Looking  at  his  head  with  its  high  though  not 
broad  forehead,  its  well  developed  coronal  region, 
its  strongly  marked  perceptive  faculties  and  ample 
breadth  behind  the  ears,  a  phrenologist  would  say 
that  firmness,  conscientiousness  and  courage  were 
his  leading  characteristics  ;  and  that  though  having 
a  fair  and  practical  intellect,  which  culture  would 
have  developed  into  a  commanding  one,  he  lacked 


THE    BROWNS   AND    THEIR   NEIGHBORS.  I7 

the  command  of  words  necessary  to  convey  his 
ideas  with  ease  or  fluency  ;  while  those  who  had 
the  best  opportunity  to  know  him,  and  were  capa- 
ble of  judging,  would  have  confirmed  this  opinion. 

A  year  and  more  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife, 
Billy  Brown  had,  in  pursuit  of  his  calling,  went 
some  six  or  seven  miles  up  the  Octorara  to  look  at 
some  rare  and  valuable  timber  on  the  premises  of 
his  friend  Joe  Simmons,  who  had  sent  him  word 
that  he  had  such  an  article  for  sale. 

Joe  was  a  bachelor,  who  owned  a  large  tract  of 
land,  given  him  by  his  father,  a  small  portion  of 
which  was  farm  land,  and  the  remainder  covered 
with  heavy  timber.  When  Billy  arrived,  after 
looking  at  the  timber  he  was  invited  to  the  house 
to  take  dinner,  as  was  the  hospitable  custom  in  those 
days  when  it  was  at  or  near  that  hour. 

Now  it  was  Joe's  good  fortune  to  have  a  house- 
keeper, whom  his  father  had  raised  and  whom  he 
had  known  from  childhood,  amply  capable  of  per- 
forming all  the  duties  pertaining  to  that  position, 
besides  being  a  woman  that  was  in  every  respect 
calculated  to  make  home  pleasant  and  comfortable. 
So  at  least  thought  Joe,  and  events  proved  that  his 
guest  strongly  inclined  to  the  same  opinion,  for  he 
soon  returned  to  visit  again  the  hospitable  mansion 
of  his  friend,  and  in  a  little  more  than  a  year,  at  the 
quiet  and  unpretending  meeting-house  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, where  Friends  met  for  divine  worship, 
William  Brown  and  Margaret  Lincoln  were  made 
man  and  wife. 

Everybody    said    it   was   a    good    match.      The 


1 8  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Friends,  in  their  quiet  way,  congratulated  each 
other  that  both  these  worthy  members  had  married 
in  the  society,  and  according  to  their  prescribed 
forms.  Joe  Simmons  was  perhaps  the  only  dissat- 
isfied person  in  the  neighborhood,  and  he  only  be- 
cause he  had  lost  his  housekeeper. 

Margaret  Lincoln  was  the  daughter  of  Scotch 
Presbyterians,  who  had  emigrated  to  America  just 
after  the  close  of  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  settled 
near  Elkton,  Cecil  county,  Maryland.  They  both 
died  about  the  year  1800,  leaving  a  family  of  small 
children  without  any  means  of  support. 

It  was  Margaret's  good  fortune  to  be  "  bound 
out,"  as  the  custom  then  was,  to  a  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  residing  in  Chester  county, 
Pennsylvania,  near  the  Maryland  line,  named  Abra- 
ham Simmons.  She  was  kindly  used  in  this  family 
and  ever  retained  for  them  a  grateful  remembrance. 
Naturally  of  a  devotional  nature,  and  attending  the 
meetings  of  no  religious  society  but  the  Friends, 
she  soon  became  attached  to  their  doctrine  and 
principles,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  made  appli- 
cation for  admission  to  membership;  this,  after 
careful  examination  by  a  committee  appointed  by 
the  society,  was  promptly  granted.  She  remained 
through  life  one  of  its  most  active  and  (^evoted 
members. 

When  Margaret  attained  the  age  of  twenty-one, 
Abraham  Simmons  made  a  present  to  his  son  Joq 
of  a  tract  of  land  on  the  Octorara,  and  asked  Mar- 
garet if  she  would  keep  house  for  him.     She  con- 


THE    BROWNS    AND    THEIR    NEIGHBORS.  I9 

sented,  and  remained  there  until  she  met  with 
WilHam  Brown,  as  before  mentioned. 

At  the  time  we  introduced  our  readers  to  the 
Brown  family,  she  was  about  35  years  of  age,  and 
had  been  married  about  eight  years.  Looking  at 
her  then,  one  could  hardly  imagine  a  more  perfect 
picture  of  matured,  womanly  beauty.  Her  form 
was  somew^hat  stout  but  not  unpleasant  to  look 
upon.  Her  heavy  tresses  of  dark-brown  hair  were 
drawn  back  from  a  forehead  smooth  as  polished 
marble  and  almost  as  white.  Her  soft  hazel  eyes 
looked  out  upon  the  world  as  though  it  w^ere 
something  to  love  and  make  happy;  and  her  nose, 
slightly  Roman,  detracted  nothing  from  her  beauty, 
while  marking  her  character  as  one  of  ample  force. 

Her  cheeks  rivaled  the  fairest  rose  in  their  pure 
and  delicate  color,  and  her  mouth  and  chin,  while 
bearing  marks  of  firmness  and  decision,  did  not  in 
any  way  detract  from  the  uniformity  and  propor- 
tion of  her  face.  The  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance was  genial  and  benevolent,  and  one  could 
not  look  upon  her  without  being  most  favorably 
impressed  with  her  appearance. 

Such  were  the  Browns,  of  Brown's  ford,  in  or 
about  the  year  1830.  Let  us  now  learn  something 
of  their  neighbors. 

A  large  majority  of  persons  residing  in  the  imme- 
diate neighborhood  were  members  of  the  Society 
of  Friends,  and  those  who  inclined  that  way.  They 
met  for  public  worship  at  Eastland  Meeting-house, 
some  tw^o  miles  from  the  ford,  on  the  northern  or 
Lancaster  county  side.     The  regular  meetings  of 


20  JOHN   AND   MARY. 

the  society  were  held  on  the  first  and  fourth  days 
of  the  week,  those  on  First  day,  or  Sunday,  being 
generally  well  attended.  When  it  happened,  as 
was  not  unfrequently  the  case,  that  a  "  traveling 
Friend"  came  round,  the  gatherings  were  quite 
large,  the  little  meeting-house  not  always  being 
large  enough  to  hold  them. 

Among  the  prominent  and  influential  members 
of  the  society,  who  gathered  twice  a  week,  in  sun- 
shine and  storm,  in  summer's  heat  and  wintei  's  cold, 
to  worship  God  in  their  quiet  and  unpretending 
way,  was  Samuel  Carter,  or  **  Grandfather  Carter" 
as  he  was  generally  called.  He  resided  at  Carter's 
mill,  on  the  Octorara,  a  short  distance  below 
Brown's,  as  we  have  already  described.  He  was  a 
widower,  with  a  large  family  of  well-grown  up  and 
married  children,  and  was  about  75  years  of  age. 
He  was  noted  the  whole  neighborhood  over  for 
his  great  strength  of  character,  his  strong  sense  of 
justice,  indomitable  pluck  and  practical  good  sense. 

Whenever  any  unusually  difficult  undertaking 
was  to  be  accomplished.  Grandfather  Carter,  above 
all  others,  was  the  man  to  be  consulted.  His 
strong  common  sense  and  originality  often  sug- 
gested a  simple  and  practical  solution  of  important 
questions  that  had  long  been  a  puzzle  to  his  less 
discerning  neighbors. 

Up  the  main  road  leading  south  from  the  ford  at 
Brown's,  and  not  more  than  a  mile  away,  on  the 
very  verge  of  the  **  Barrens,"  lived  Peggy  Keys  and 
her  husband  Tommy.  Peggy  was  ones  of  those 
strong-minded    ladies   who    believed    in    woman's 


THE   BROWNS   AND    THEIR   NEIGHBORS.  21 

rights,  and  what  was  better,  maintained  them.  In- 
stead of  vainly  pleading  for  her  rights,  as  do  her 
less  sagacious  sisters  of  modern  times,  she  had 
started  business  at  the  head  of  the  firm  and  with 
indomitable  pluck  maintained  her  position  there. 
Tommy  was  a  man  of  some  character  and  by  no 
means  a  cypher ;  but  he  was  not  captain  in  tJiat 
company.  He  had  taken  the  position  of  first  lieu- 
tenant at  the  beginning,  and  was  in  no  danger  of 
promotion  except  from  the  death  of  his  superior 
officer. 

They  owned  a  reasonably  comfortable  house  and 
a  few  acres  of  land,  which  they  farmed  very  nicely, 
Peggy  assisting  in  the  out-door  work. 

She  could  hoe  corn  and  potatoes,  dress  flax,  rake 
hay  and  wheat,  and  husk  corn,  as  well  as  men  gen- 
erally. What  she  could  not  do  herself,  she  would 
oversee  others  in  doing ;  and  in  that  she  manifes- 
ted much  ability.  Nor  was  she  content  to  work 
only  at  home.  When  not  busy  there  she  would 
hunt  for  a  job  among  neighboring  farmers,  leaving 
to  her  two  daughters  the  business  of  taking  care  of 
things  at  home. 

As  a  corn-husker  Peggy  was  peerless.  In  the 
fall  of  the  year  she  would  look  out  for  all  the 
huskmg  that  could  be  secured,  and  as  soon  as  the 
grain  was  dry  enough,  at  it  she  and  Tommy  would 
go.  At  the  first  dawn  of  morning,  no  matter  how 
cold,  she  could  be  seen,  with  a  night^cap  or  two, 
and  a  close-fitting  bonnet  in  addition  on  her  head, 
to  keep  out  the  cold,  a  heavy  tow  apron  or  bib  on, 
and  a  long,  smooth  husking  peg,  made  of  the  best 


2  2  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

and  hardest  of  hickory,  fastened  to  her  hand  by  a 
leather  strap  or  eel-skin. 

From  early  dawn  to  dewy  eve  these  two  would 
toil,  stopping  only  when  the  welcome  dinner-horn 
called  them  to  their  mid-day  meal.  That  meal  over 
Peggy  would  light  her  pipe.  Tommy  would  bite  off 
a  mouthful  of  his  heavy  plug  tobacco,  and  away 
they  would  go  to  their  labor,  which  darkness  alone 
brought  to  a  close.  Nor  would  that  always 
end  their  toil.  Sometimes  when  there  was  moon-l 
light,  Peggy  would  direct  Tommy  to  accompany 
her  to  the  field  after  supper,  and  the  two  would 
toil  till  late  bed-time  at  their  task. 

Nor  was  this  all.  No  two  men  in  the  neighbor- 
hood could  do  more  or  better  work,  of  this  kind, 
in  the  same  time,  than  Peggy  Keys  and  her  hus- 
band. 

The  bargains  were  always  made  by  her,  and  the 
settlements  also.  She  was  captain  of  that  company 
and  maintained  her  rank  in  its  entirety. 

In  many  respects  she  was  an  estimable  woman, 
and  under  other  circumstances  might  have  been 
extensively  useful.  She  had  an  active  mind  but  no 
culture,  and  as  such  people  mostly  are,  was  an 
adept  in  hunting  up  neighborhood  news.  Without 
meaning  to  do  any  harm  in  this  way,  she  often, 
through  want  of  thought,  was  the  means  of  making 
mischief 

Her  family  had  been  Quakers,  but  when  she  mar- 
ried Tommy,  who  was  not  a  member,  she  was  dis- 
owned. Neverthele.^.s  she  always  attended  meet- 
ing when  a  "strange  Friend"  came  along,  of  which 


\ 


THE    BROWNS    AND    THEIR    NEIGHBORS.  23 

notice  was  mostly  g"iven  her.  On  such  occasions 
she  would  direct  Tommy  to  yoke  the  oxen  to  the 
cart,  that  being  the  only  vehicle  they  were  in  pos- 
session of,  and  placing  a  rush-bottom  chair  in  it, 
he  seated  on  the  front  part  of  the  cart,  they  would 
drive  to  meeting. 

Far  over  in  the  "Barrens,"  some  two  miles  away, 
at  the  foot  of  Goat-hill  (so  called  from  there  often 
being  goats  seen  browsing  on  its  summit),  lived  a 
colored  man  who  was  known  throughout  the 
country  round  by  the  name  of  Neddy  Johnson. 
Neddy  had  been  a  slave  under  the  law  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, the  property  of  some  one  in  the  southern 
part  of  Lancaster  county.  He  had  been  married 
in  early  life,  but  his  wife  had  died,  leaving 
him  a  boy  who  went  by  the  name  of  "Bill."  After 
a  short  experience  in  single  blessedness,  Neddy 
had  married  again,  joining  his  fortunes  with  a  widow 
named  "  Till"  or  "  Tilly,"  who  had  two  worthless 
boys,  now  grown  to  men,  known  as  "  Dave"  and 
"  Ben."  Neddy  and  his  spouse  had  sought  the 
"  Barrens,"  where  they  had  erected  a  log  cabin, 
fenced  in  a  small  lot,  and  proposed  to  make  that 
place  their  home  for  the  remainder  of  their  days. 

Neddy  was  in  many  respects  a  remarkable  man. 
His  physical  development  was  grand.  He  was 
six  feet  in  height,  as  straight  as  an  arrow,  and 
weighed  about  i8o  pounds.  His  strength  was 
most  remarkable.  Logs  of  wood  that  ordinary 
men  could  not  lift,  he  could  toss  into  a  wagon  or 
cart  without  an  effort.  It  was  said,  on  what  seemed 
to  be  good  authority,  that  he  had  cut,  with  a  cradle. 


24  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ten  acres  of  well-grown  wheat  in  a  day.  If  any  of 
the  farmers  wanted  a  big  day's  work  done,  they 
sent  for  Neddy.  He  seemed  to  work  without  an 
effort.  Harvest  time,  though,  was  his  glory.  Al- 
ways leading  the  mowers  or  reapers,  he  walked  at 
their  head  like  a  king.  No  one  in  all  that  country 
was  vain  enough  to  believe  he  was  able  to  "crowd" 
Neddy  at  such  a  time.  At  threshing  with  a  flail, 
as  was  then  the  custom,  he  had  no  peer.  It  was 
said  he  could  thresh  twenty  bushels  of  wheat  in 
that  way  in  a  day  ;  while  ten  was  considered  a  good 
day's  work  for  most  men. 

He  had  a  great  deal  of  native  shrewdness  and 
cunning,  and  withal  was  perfectly  honest  and  up- 
right. 

Neddy  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  that 
peculiar  faculty,  which  in  human  beings  is  sup- 
posed to  represent  what  in  animals  is  called  instinct; 
but  which  in  the  former  is  possibly  the  result  of 
very  acute  and  well-trained  perceptive  powers.  If 
anything  was  lost  and  a  party  started  out  to  find  it, 
Neddy  being  with  them,  he  was  sure  to  be  the 
lucky  one.  Often  he  would  go  straight  to  the  spot 
without  an  apparent  effort  or  thought.  If  he  went 
fishing  the  fish  were  sure  to  bite  at  his  hook.  His 
traps  were  the  ones  the  game  delighted  to  enter, 
and  when  he  went  out  to  shoot  pigeons  or  squir- 
rels, they  were  sure  to  present  themselves  at  a  con- 
venient place  in  order  to  fall  before  his  unerring 
aim. 

Such  was  Neddy  Johnson.  Our  readers  shall 
know  hirr  better  in  the  future. 


CHAPTER   III. 


THE    FRIENDS. 

"  We  bring  no  ghastly  halocaust, 
We  pile  no  graven  stone  ; 
He  ^er'-es  thee  be=t  who  loveth  most 
His  brother,  and  thy  own.'' 

It  has  been  already  stated,  in  a  preceding  chap- 
ter, that  a  large  majority  of  those  who  resided  in 
the  neighborhood  of  which  we  have  heen  speaking, 
were  members  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  Indeed 
the  settlement  of  Friends,  of  which  this  formed  a 
part,  embraced  portions  of  Lancaster  and  Chester 
counties,  in  Pennsylvania,  and  Cecil  and  Harford 
counties,  in  Maryland. 

Within  reach  of  Brown's  ford,  by  an  easy  half- 
day's  journey,  were  not  less  than  six  Friends'meet- 
ing  houses,  three  of  them  in  Lancaster,  two  in 
Cecil  and  one  in  Harford  county. 

These  were  all  embraced  within  the  limits  of 
one  quarterly  meeting — Nottingham — which  was 
held  alternately  at  Little  Britain,  Deer  Creek  and 
Brick  Meeting-house. 

T  le  membership  of  this  was  quite  large,  and 
embraced  many  substantial  and  well-to-do  citizens. 
As  a  natural  consequence  the  principles,  doctrines 
and  customs  of  Friends  had  an  extensive  influence 
in  this  section,  even  among  those  who  but  seldom 
attended  their  meetings.  The  leading  members 
were  noted  for  their  force  of  character  and  self- 
reliance,  and  these  qualities  contributed  largely  to 


I 


26  JOHN    AND    MARY. 


impress  their  principles  and  modes  of  thought  on 
those  who  possessed  them  in, a  less  degree. 

In  those  days  the  members  of  that  society  were 
much  more  exacting  than  at  the  present  time.  1 
Music  was  forbidden  in  their  families,  and  dancing ' 
was  a  sin  scarcely  to  be  atoned  for.  Any  appear- 
ance of  gayety  in  dress  was  frowned  down  as  a  sin  i 
that  should  receive  no  quarter.  The  elderly  Friends 
wore  their  clothes  of  the  plainest  cut  and  color, 
and  while  to  the  younger  members  were  allowed 
some  latitude  in  this  respect,  there  were  certain 
bounds  beyond  which  they  were  not  permitted  to 
go.  The  young  men  were  permitted  to  wear  coats 
of  soft  brown  or  dark  color  ;  but  they  did  not  give 
to  the  elderly  members  that  supreme  satisfaction 
they  enjoyed  at  seeing  a  youthful  Friend  clad  in  drab. 
Any  color,  however,  could  be  tolerated  sooner  than 
blue.  That  was  not  to  be  permitted  or  thought  of 
The  devil  never  hated  holy  water  with  half  the 
unction  that  a  devoted  follower  of  George  Fox,  at 
that  day,  hated  a  blue  coat,  especially  if  it  was 
adorned  with  gilt  or  brass  buttons — then  it  was  fit 
only  to  be  deposited  in  the  very  inner  sanctuary  of 
the  Evil  One. 

A  devoted  and  pious  Friend,  whose  well-tilled 
acres  bordered  on  the  meeting-house  at  Eastland, 
had  two  bright-eyed  daughters  who  had  come  to 
that  age  when  unsatisfied  yearnings  take  the  place 
of  girlhood's  romp  and  gayety.  Regular  in  their 
attendance  at  meeting,  as  was  the  imperative  law  in 
their  domestic  circle,  they  had  attracted  the  atten- 
tion and  excited  the  admiration  of  a  young  man, 


j  THE    FRIENDS.  27 

himself  a  member  of  the  society,  but  who  had  so 
far  departed  from  established  custom  as  to  wear  a 
blue  coat.  Once  or  twice  he  visited  the  Friend's 
house  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  company  with 
the  girls,  and  the  father  bore  it  with  becoming  res- 
ignation. Patience  at  last,  however,  ceased  to  be 
a  virtue  ;  he  said  :  "  Franklin,  thee's  not  wanted 
here,  thee's  not  wanted,  thee  may  go."  The  young 
man  looked  up  in  astonishment,  but  the  Friend 
jcontinued  :  "  I  know  what  thee  comes  for,  but  thy 
coats  's  too  blue — /  tell  thee  thy  coafs  too  blue.'' 
Franklin  departed. 

More  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  since,  both  the 
rigid  Quaker  and  the  blue-coated  youth  crossed 
over  the  dark  river,  and  all  that  remained  of  them 
on  earth  was  laid  peacefully  away  in  the  little  grave- 
yard near  by.  In  the  house,  not  made  with  hands, 
to  which  they  have  gone,  the  angels  wear  neither 
blue  nor  drab,  but  vestments  radiant  with  the  love 
that  embraces  within  its  limits  all  created  beings. 

The  Friends  were  noted  for  their  thriftiness.  A 
general  supervision  was  exe  rcised  by  the  officers 
of  the  society  over  the  business  relations  of  the 
members,  and  at  their  monthly  meetings  one  of  the 
queries  answered  by  the  overseers  was :  "  Are 
Friends  careful  to  live  within  the  bounds  of  their 
circumstances  .>"  Any  marked  deviation  from  this 
received  the  immediate  attention  of  the  officials, 
and  indeed,  a  member  who  regarded  his  standing 
in  the  society,  was  careful  to  guard  against  much 
outward  show. 

The  general  restraint  upon  any  inclination  to- 


28  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ward  extravagance,  and  the  industrious  and  frugal 
habits  of  this  people,  had  a  tendency  to  cultivate 
and  encourage  a  fondness  for  gain  ;  and  the  mem- 
bers of  the  society  were  proverbial  for  their  "  love 
of  money."  There  were  few  really  poor  people 
among  them,  though  such  as  were  so,  were  care- 
fully cared  for  by  the  meeting. 

The  quiet  ways  of  the  Friends,  and  their  habits 
of  self-restraint  developed  in  them  a  kind  of  slyness 
that  peculiarly  fitted  them,  sharpened  as  it  was  by 
a  love  of  money,  to  make  a  successful  and  profit- 
able bargain.  Indeed,  it  was  sometimes  said,  that 
some  prominent  Friends  were  better  "  dealers"  than 
strict  honesty  or  the  pure  spirit  of  Christianity 
would  warrant. 

A  drover  in  a  neighboring  village  had  bought 
some  fat  cattle  from  a  farmer  who  was  a  member 
of  the  Presbyterian  church.  They  were  sold  by 
live  weight,  and  when  weighed  a  few  days  afterward 
they  had  lost  many  pounds.  The  drover  com- 
plained bitterly,  and  charged  that  they  had  been  fed 
salt  and  allowed  to  drink  a  large  quantity  of  water, 
in  order  to  increase  their  weight.  In  the  presence 
of  several  persons  who  were  at  the  village  store,  in 
the  evening,  he  said  : 

"  Prispiterans  will  do  that,  they'll  alius  git  their 
steers  to  drink  all  they  kin.  Feed  'em  all  the  salt 
they'll  eat.  I  know  'em,  av  bin  fooled  with  'em 
afore." 

"  How  is  it  with  the  Quakers,  Abe,"  said  a  sly 
fellow  in  the  crowd,  who  perceived  several  mem- 
bers of  that  society  present,  "will  they  do  so  too?" 


I 


THE    FRIENDS.  29 

"  Yes,"  said  Abe,  too  indignant  to  conceal  the 
truth,  **  some  of  'em  will ;  tJie  strict  tin's  wiliy 

The  remark  was  greeted  with  a  hearty  laugh,  in 
which  all  parties  joined. 

The  Friends  were  noted  for  their  hospitality. 
The  belated  traveler  never  asked  in  vain  for  a 
night's  lodging. 

"  The  long-remembered  beggar  was  their  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast  " 

No  one  turned  away  empty  handed  from  their 
dwellings  who  was  needy  or  in  want ;  though  they 
were  the  last  people  to  encourage  idleness  or  un- 
thrift. 

Their  social  disposition  was  also  manifested  by 
the  frequent  interchange  of  visits  with  each  other. 
These  took  place  mostly  on  First-day  afternoons,  as 
the  rest  of  the  week  was  generally  taken  up  with 
labor,  and  they  did  not  observe  the  Sabbath  as 
strictly  as  some  other  sects. 

Their  quarterly  meeting  days,  however,  were 
the  great  occasions  for  the  manifestation  of  social 
hospitality.  To  these  meetings  there  was  generally 
a  large  turnout,  not  only  the  members,  but  many 
others  within  reach  attending  them.  Those  near  the 
place,  and  within  easy  distance  of  it,  made  ample 
provision  for  the  reception  of  guests,  and  gave  them 
a  genuine  old-fashioned  welcome.  The  meeting 
sometimes  lasted  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  when 
"  weighty  "  Friends  were  present  who  had  much 
to  communicate,  and  at  such  times  those  from  a  dis- 
tance had  to  remain  in  the  neighborhood  until  the 
next  day.  It  often  happened  that  beds  had  to  be 
made  up  for  the  family,  on  the  floor  of  the  parlor 


30  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

and  kitchen,  their  ordinary  sleeping  accommoda- 
tions not  being  sufficient  for  all  the  strangers.  But 
with  all  these  disadvantages  the  entertainments 
of  Friends,  at  these  meetings,  were  such  as  to  leave 
always  a  pleasant  and  kindly  remembrance.  Roast 
beef,  veal,  and  chickens  young  and  fat,  graced  the 
well-filled  table.  Butter,  goldenand  s*veet  as  the 
scent  of  r»ew-mown  hay,  bread,white  as  snow  itself, 
and  pies,  and  puddings  to  which  no  words  can  do 
justice,  added  their  attractions.  Sociability  as  gen- 
uine and  natural  as  the  blush  which  often  mantled 
the  cheeks  of  the  pretty  Quaker  girls,  pervaded  the 
household,  and  the  habitual  restraint  that  g'^nerally 
rested  upon  the  members  was  for  a  time  removed. 
But  there  was  one  Friend  within  the  limits  of 
this  quarterly  meeting,  always  regular  in  his  atten- 
dance, whom  neither  the  attractions  of  hospitality, 
the  charms  of  companionship,  nor  the  inconvenience 
of  an  empty  stomach,  could  ever  tempt  to  take  a 
meal  at  the  house  of  an  acquaintance  on  his  way 
to  or  from  meeting.  This  was  John  Brown,  a 
brother  of  Billy's,  who  dwelt  on  the  borders  of 
the  "  Barrens,"  in  Cecil  county,  a  short  distance  from 
the  Pennsylvania  line.  Mounted  on  his  little  sorrel 
horse,  with  a  saddle  and  bridle  as  plain  and  un- 
pretending as  ingenuity  could  possibly  make  them, 
dressed  in  a  drab  coat  of  the  most  rigid  color  and 
pattern,  and  a  hat  whose  broad  brim  was  a  passport 
to  the  good  graces  of  the  strictest  Friend,  he  would 
jog  off  to  meeting,  ten  or  fifteen  miles  away,  as 
the  case  may  be,  and  return  without  ever  accepting 
an  invitation  to  partake  of  refreshments. 


THE    FRIENDS. 


3^ 


Unlike  his  brother,  he  seemed  adapted  by  nature 
for  one  of  the  strictest  of  the  sect.  In  early  life, 
when  in  attendance  at  Friends'  meeting,  he  had  been 
visited  by  the  "  Spirjt,"  his  whole  body  shaking 
violently  for  some  minutes,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
there  had  been  a  marked  change  in  his  character 
ever  afterward.  Genial  and  hospitable  at  home,  he 
accepted  no  invitation  to  visit  abroad,  except  under 
the  most  pressing  circumstances.  Twice  a  week 
he  repaired  to  the  little  brick  meeting-house  at 
West  Nottingham,  a  mile  or  two  to  the  south,  where 
Friends  met  to  worship,  and  permitted  no  consider- 
ations of  business  or  weather  to  deter  him. 

The  membership  here  was  small,  sometimes  but 
two  or  three  being  in  attendance  ;  but  among  them 
always  was  John  Brown.  On  one  occasion  it  is 
said  that  none  were  present  but  himself;  but  John 
entered  the  house,  took  his  usual  seat,  which  he 
occupied  the  allotted  time,  and  then  retiring, 
wended  his  way  to  his  humble  home. 

Poor  fellow,  his  faithful  head  was  long  since  laid 
beneath  the  sods  of  Nottingham  grave-yard  and 
sedge-grass  and  wild  briar  for  years  have  bloomed 
about  his  humble  grave;  but  those  who  knew  and 
understood  him  well  cherish  no  kinder  or  more 
tender  memory  than  that  of  the  plain,  honest 
Quaker — John  Brown. 

The  secret  of  his  unwillingness  to  stop  at  the 
houses  of  Friends  and  partake  of  their  hospitality,  is 
thus  explained  :  Deeply  devoted  to  the  doctrine  and 
principles  of  the  society,  he  was  specially  so  to  the 
testimony  which  they  bore  against  negro  slavery. 


32  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Though  living  in  a  slave  State,  and  surrounded  by 
influences  hostile  to  the  development  of  an  anti- 
slavery  sentiment,  he  had  resolved  that  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned  the  testimony  of  the  society  against 
that  institution  should  be  maintained  in  its  purity.  In 
pursuance  ofthis  he  would  neither  taste,  touch  or  han- 
dle, when  it  was  practicable  to  avoid  it,  anything  that 
was  the  product  of  slave  labor.  The  clothes  he 
wore  were  all  of  home  manufacture,  and  the  susrar, 
coffee  and  other  articles  consumed  by  him  were 
the  products  of  free  labor,  at  least  were  represented 
as  such  to  him.  When  away  from  home  he  did 
not  care  to  make  this  fact  known,  and  consequently 
thought  it  the  best  way  to  avoid  stopping  where 
he  would  be  liable  to  make  use,  inadvertently,  of 
slave-grown  produce. 

In  fact,  the  opposition  of  Friends,  passive  though 
it  generally  was,  to  the  system  of  slavery,  had 
much  to  do  with  preventing  the  growth  of  a  bitter 
pro-slavery  sentiment.  Their  early  and  faithful  testi- 
mony against  this  wrong  had  made  an  impression  on 
the  outside  world,  and,  though  the  section  of  country 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking  was  not  anti- 
slavery,  it  was  surely  much  less  pro-slavery  than  it 
otherwise  would  have  been.  True,  there  was  a 
bitter  prejudice  against  the  negro,  and  a  general 
conviction  that  he  was  better  off  in  slavery  than  in 
freedom,  if  he  had  a  "good  master,"  but  it  was  be- 
lieved that  there  were  many  bad  masters,  and  a 
great  deal  of  wrong  done  to  slaves.  The  presence 
of  the  weary  and  stricken  fugitive  always  brought 
out  a  sentiment  favorable  to  his  protection,  and  but 


THE    FRIENDS.  33 

few  could  be  found  hardy  enough  to  openly  advo- 
cate the  return  of  one  to  bondage. 

The  houses  of  Friends  were  generally  the  places 
for  runaway  slaves  to  resort  to .  They  were  here 
doubly  secure  both  on  account  of  the  known  opposi- 
tion of  that  people  to  slavery,  and  the  quiet  tact  with 
which  they  managed  affairs  of  the  kind  that  were 
committed  to  their  care. 

At  about  the  period  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking,  there  arose  a  dissension  in  the  Society, 
which  terminated  in  an  open  rupture  and  a  division 
into  two  separate  organizations,  each  claiming  to 
be  the  original  Society,  then  and  now  known 
as  Orthodox  and  Hicksite.  History  teaches  that 
there  are  no  disputes  so  bitter  and  unreasonable 
as  those  of  a  theological  character,  and  this  one 
was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  Our  quiet  little  com- 
munity in  the  vicinity  of  Brown's  ford  was  pro- 
foundly agitated  by  it,  and  arrayed  themselves  into 
two  hostile  sections,  as  bitter  and  uncompromising 
as  sectarian  bigotry  could  make  them.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  very  milk  of  human  kindness  was 
turned  to  gall  by  this  unhappy  feud,  that  rent  in 
twain  those  who  ever  should  have  been  united  in 
the  bonds  of  love. 

Billy  and  Margaret  Brown,  with  Grandfather 
Carter  and  his  family,  espoused  the  side  of  those 
known  as  Hicksites,  who  were  indeed  greitly  in  the 
majority  in  that  settlement.  But  the  other  side 
made  up  in  zeal  and  activity  what  they  lacked  in 
numbers,  and  proceeded  to  "disown"  all  of  the  op- 
posite party.     This  proceeding  led  to  frequent  per- 


34  JOHN    AND    MARY- 

sonal  interviews,  between  the  parties,  which  were 
marked  by  anything  but  kindness  and  good  feeling. 
Among  the  leaders  of  those  known  as  Orthodox 
Friends  was  one,  living  some  three  miles  from  the 
ford,  on  the  Lancaster  county  side,  known  by  the 
name  of  Jos.  Bailey.  He  had  manifested  great  bit- 
terness toward  the  Hicksite  Friends,  and  was  cor- 
dially disliked  by  them  ;  but  as  our  readers  will  be- 
come better  acquainted  with  him  in  the  progress  of 
this  story,  we  shall  say  nothing  further  of  him  at 
present. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A  VISITOR. 

*'  In  faith  and  hope  the  world  will  disagree, 
But  ail  mankind's  concern  is  charity; 
All  viust  be  false  who  thwart  this  one  great  end; 
And  a// of  God,  that  bless  mankind,  or  mend." 

It  was  early  in  the  forenoon  of  a  beautiful  autumn 
day.  The  woods  around  Brown's  ford  were  just 
beginning  to  clothe  themselves  in  the  gorgeous 
drapery  of  the  season.  Up  the  little  brook,  that 
entered  the  creek  near  the  ford,  the  maples  were 
tinged  with  crimson,  which  contrasted  finely  with 
the  deep  green  of  the  laurel  and  the  yet  unfaded 
freshness  of  the  oak.  Along  the  banks  of  the 
creek  the  gum  and  birch  showed  traces  of  the  frost 
king  in  their  red  and  yellow  leaves  ;  while  high  up 
on  the  hill  the  hickories  waved  their  fading  verdure 
in  the  soft  autumn  air.  The  squirrels  were  busy 
gathering  their  winter  stores,  and  as  they  leaped  from 
branch  to  branch,  or  from  tree  to  tree,  now  and 
then  a  leaf  would  be  severed  from  its  hold,  and 
floating,  dancing,  eddying  through  the  dreamy  at- 
mosphere, would  settle  down  at  length  on  its  last 
resting-place — the  earth. 

Billy  Brown  was  busily  at  work  in  his  shop, 
seated  at  the  "  wheel  pit"  near  the  door,  mortising 
hubs  for  wagon-wheels.  Early  in  the  morning  the 
air  had  been  chilly,  and  a  fire  was  necessary,  but  it 
had  gone  down  and  the  embers  smouldered  on  the 
hearth.  On  the  floor  sat  Frank,  building  imagi- 
35 


36  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

nary  houses  from  blocks  gathered  up  about  the 
shop.  Near  him  lay  "  Ring,"  the  great  house  dog, 
so  called  from  a  white  ring  around  his  neck,  though 
otherwise  [he  was  as  black  as  nature  well  could 
make  him.  He  was  a  faithful  dog,  Ring  was,  and 
followed  Frank  wherever  he  went,  up  and  down 
the  creek,  through  the  laurel  hill,  or  out  to  the 
barrens  in  search  of  the  cows,  and  was  only  tempted 
to  leave  him  when  some  very  attractive  game 
crossed  his  path. 

The  sun  shone  forth  with  all  the  soft  brilliancy 
peculiar  to  the  season.  The  gentle  music  of  the 
Octorara,  as  it  stole  softly  by,  fell  dreamily  on  the 
ear.  From  the  meadow,  on  its  opposite  bank,  could 
be  heard  the  shrill  "  bob-white"  of  the  partridge, 
while  from  the  wood  on  the  hill  came  the  less 
musical  bark  of  the  squirrel. 

In  the  barn,  Neddy  was  at  work  threshing  out 
the  summer's  crop,  and  the  dull,  regular  sound  of 
the  flail  re-echoed  through  the  neighboring  woods. 
From  a  wood  nearly  a  mile  away  resounded  the 
axes  of  the  **  boys,"  who  had  that  morning  gone  out 
to  cut  the  winter's  firewood. 

*'  Father,  there  comes  a  stranger !  there  comes  a 
stranger  !"  said  Frank  suddenly,  as  a  man,  riding 
from  the  direction  of  Carter's  mill,  stopped  at  the 
fence  near  the  shop  and  was  hitching  his  horse  ; 
"  it's  old  Josey  Bailey,  he's  comin'  to  have  another 
meetin',"  said  he,  as  the  man  approached  the  shop. 

''Hush!  hush  !"  said  his  father  in  an  undertone, 
"  keep  quiet." 

The  man  who  was  thus  approaching  has  already 


A   VISITOR.  37 

been  made  known  to  our  readers  as  a  leading  mem- 
ber of  the  Orthodox  Friends.  The  boy's  remarks 
had  reference  to  the  frequent  interviews  between  the 
two  parties,  while  the  Orthodox  were  engaged  in 
"  disowning"  the  Hicksites. 

"  Well,  Billy,"  said  he  as  he  approached  the  shop 
and  stood  in  front  of  the  open  door. 

Billy  Brown  looked  up  from  his  work,  glanced 
inquiringly  at  the  stranger,  said  "  well  Josey,"  and 
in  a  moment  was  as  busy  as  ever  with  mallet  and 
chisel. 

The  visitor  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  door- 
way, hesitated  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  began  : 
"  Is  thee  in  want  of  any  help  just  now,  Billy?" 

"No,  I  guess  not,"  was  the  quiet  reply;  while  a 
still  greater  degree  of  curiosity  flitted  across  his 
countenance. 

"  No  threshing  to  do  ?"  asked  Josey  in  the  same 
quiet  tone. 

"  No,"  was  the  reply,  "  Neddy  is  doing  the  thresh- 
ing." 

"  No  wood  to  cut?"  persisted  the  inquirer. 

"  No,  the  boys  are  cutting  the  winter's  wood," 
was  answered. 

"  Nor  corn  to  husk?" 

"  No,  Peggy  Keys  is  to  husk  the  corn,  I  always 
give  her  that  job." 

"  Don't  Margaret  need  any  help,  either  ?"  per- 
sisted Josey,  without  the  least  symptoms  of  disap- 
pointment at  the  negative  answers  returned  to  all 
his  inquiries. 

"  No,  I  guess  not.      Martha  came  home  from 


38  JOBS   AND    MARY. 

Westtown  last  week,  and  she  don't  need  any  other 
help." 

Friend  Bailey  in  the  meantime  looked  as  calm  as 
a  summer's  morning.  I/e  knew  that  his  visit  would 
not  be  a  failure,  though  all  his  preliminary  ques- 
tions had  been  answered  negatively.  He  felt  con- 
fident of  success  when  the  main  question  would 
come  fairly  up. 

Seating  himself  on  a  large  block,  close  by  the 
door-sill,  and  looking  quietly  around,  he  said : 

'*  Davy  was  over  to  see  me  last  night,  and  he  ex- 
pects some  folks  along  in  a  few  days,  and  would 
like  to  have  a  place  for  them  a  little  while." 

This  was  said  in  a  low,  earnest  tone,  and  the  re- 
mark seemed  at  once  to  have  the  desired  effect. 
Billy  Brown's  interest  in  the  matter  was  now  fully 
aroused.  He  laid  his  mallet  on  the  side  of  the 
wheel-pit,  and  looking  up  earnestly  into  the  face  of 
the  questioner  said: 

"  How  many  are  there  ?" 

"  Only  two,  though  I  believe  there  is  a  child 
with  them,"  was  the  reply.  "  It  is  a  man  and 
woman,  and  their  little  boy  about  a  year  old.  I 
thought  this  a  good  place  for  them  to  stay  until 
Davy  can  take  them  on  farther.  I  called  to  see 
Sammy  Carter  this  morning  and  he  thinks  this  as 
good  a  place  as  we  can  get.  So  I  came  up  to  see 
if  you  could  take  them." 

Billy  Brown  understood  perfectly  well  that  these 
were  fugitive  slaves,  for  whom  shelter  and  a  place 
of  concealment  was  wanted  until  they  could  be 
conveyed  to  a  place  of  greater  safety.     With  strong 


A   VISITOR.  39 

and  inveterate  prejudices  against  the  colored  race, 
he  was  pre-eminently  a  just  man,  and  would  not 
knowingly  permit  a  wrong  to  be  done  to  any  one 
when  in  his  power  to  prevent  it.  Besides,  the  in- 
fluence of  the  teaching  of  Friends  made  him  all  the 
more  willing  to  do  what  was  in  his  power  to  assist 
an  escaping  fugitive. 

"  I'll  have  to  see  mother  about  it,"  he  said  at 
length,  rising  to  his  feet,  "  let's  go  to  the  house  and 
see  what  she  has  to  say." 

The  two  then  walked  slowly  toward  the  house, 
which  was  some  thirty  or  forty  yards  distant. 

No  one  knew  better  than  Billy  Brown  that  ask- 
ing "  mother,"  as  he  called  his  wife,  about  such  a 
matter  as  this  was  a  mere  form.  But  it  was  his 
way ;  he  never  did  anything  of  importance,  or  en- 
tered into  any  arrangement  without  first  consulting 
her. 

Margaret  Brown  was  busily  engaged  in  ironing, 
in  the  large  kitchen,  when  the  two  entered.  "  Well, 
Margaret,"  said  Friend  Bailey  in  his  quiet  way, 
**  how  is  thee  ?"  "  I'm  well  ;  is  thee  well,  Josey  ?" 
said  she  in  a  tone  indicating  surprise,  while  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  showed  unusual  firmness. 
She  probably  thought  that  he  came  on  business 
connected  with  the  division. 

"  Mother,"  said  Billy  when  they  were  seated, 
"  Josey  has  come  to  see  if  we  could  keep  some  folks 
for  a  while  that  Davy  expects  to  bring  along  soon. 
A  man  and  woman  and  their  child.  He'll  bring 
them  here  in  a  few  days." 

The  firm  look  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth 


40  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

vanished,  and  her  eye  softened  as  she  said  :  "  Yes, 
I  guess  we  can  ;  somebody  will  have  to  keep  them." 

'*  Grandfather  Carter  and  Josey  were  talking  it  over 
this  morning,  and  they  thought  they  had  better  be 
brought  here,"  said  Billy. 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  visitor,  "  this  is  rather  a 
by-place,  and  they  would  n't  be  as  likely  to  look 
for  them  here  as  some  other  places ;  besides  you 
have  no  bad  neighbors." 

"  I  think  we  can  keep  them,"  'said  Margaret, 
"  when  will  he  bring  them  ?" 

*' As  soon  as  they  arrive  and  rest  a  little,"  said 
Josey ;  "  they  will  be  along  in  a  few  days." 

He  then  bid  farewell  and  started  out.  With  a 
look  of  satisfaction  he  mounted  his  horse,  turned 
its  head  toward  the  creek,  passed  over  the  ford, 
and  ascending  the  hill  beyond  was  soon  lost  to 
sight  in  the  distance. 

At  half-past  eleven  o'clock  Martha  Brown  came 
out  on  the  porch,  with  the  tin  dinner-horn,  and 
blew  on  it  loud  and  long.  This  she  repeated  three 
times,  and  then  feeling  sure  that  the  boys  and 
Neddy  could  not  fail  to  hear  it,  she  returned  into 
the  kitchen  and  bestirred  herself  to  help  set  the 
tables  and  place  dinner  upon  them. 

We  say  "  tables,"  because  the  Brown  family,  fol- 
lowing the  custom  of  those  days  in  that  section, 
did  not  eat  at  the  same  table  with  the  negroes. 
Consequently  Neddy  was  always  set  at  a  table  by 
himself  He  had  the  same  articles  of  food,  was 
used  precisely  like  the  rest  in  every  other  particu- 
lar, but  was  seated  at  a  table  by  himself     He  had 


A    VISITOR.  41 

always  been  used  to  this,  and  therefore  considered 
it  no  degradation. 

The  boys  came  in  a  few  minutes  before  twelve, 
hungry  and  tired.  Frank  was  sent  to  the  barn  to 
tell  Neddy  again  to  come.  When  they  were  all 
seated  at  dinner  Billy  said : 

"  Neddy,  I'm  going  to  have  a  man  to  help  us. 
Would  thee  like  to  have  him  help  thrash  ?" 

Neddy  sometimes  stammered,  especially  when  a 
little  excited, 

"Wh — who  is'e?"  said  he,  a  shade  of  dissatisfac- 
tion passing  over  his  face. 

"  He's  from  Meraland,"  was  the  reply,  "  one  of 
Davy's  men." 

"  Dey's  worth  nothin' — ging — god  Fse  tried  'em," 
said  Neddy,  evidently  displeased  at  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing competition  in  his  field  of  labor,  "  dey's  better  off 
where  dey  is." 

"  Come,  Neddy,"  said  Margaret,  "  thee  musn't 
talk  that  way ;  the  poor  creeters  have  been  used 
very  bad  I  expect." 

"  Su — sum  of  'em  is,"  said^he,  evidently  relenting, 
"  but  sum's  powerful  on'ry.  I'se  seen  a  heap  of 
em." 

"They'll  be  here  in  a  day  or  two,"  pursued  Mar- 
garet, and  we  must  take  good  care  of  'em ;  they 
won't  be  here  long." 

"  Yes  'um,"  said  Neddy,  evidently  softened 
toward  the  fugitives  by  this  last  remark. 

After  dinner  was  over  Margaret  said  :  "  Neddy, 
Frank's  Guinea  hen  has  stolen  her  nest  somewhere 
in  the  Laurel  hill ;  we've  all  been  trying  to  find  it. 


42  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

The  boys  have  hunted  for  it,  and  Martha  and  me 
have  been  all  over  the  hill.  We  hear  her  cackling 
thore  ev'ry  day  but  can't  find  a  bit  of  it."  "  Can't 
thee  find  it  for  us?" 

"  Yes  'urn,"  said  Neddy,  "  guess  I  might,"  and 
away  he  started  toward  the  hill. 

In  about  ten  minutes  Neddy  came  back,  his  large, 
honest  black  face  fairly  shining  with  delight ;  in 
his  old  felt  hat  were  ten  or  twelve  Guinea  eggs. 

"  Well,  I  do  say  !  how  is  it  thee  always  finds 
things,"  .said  Margaret,  "  here  ve  ve  been  hunting 
for  that  nest  for  more'n  a  week,  and  thee  found  it  in 
a  few  minutes." 

"  Dun  no,"  said  Neddy,  "  I  jes'  went  over  dar  to 
de  rock  fornentz  de  barn  up  in  de  lorrels,  and  dar's 
de  nest,  in  under  de  edge  of  de  rock,  hind  a  little 
bush." 

"  Well,  I  declare  !  and  we  were  all  round  that 
rock.  Neddy,  thee's  a  lit  le  too  sharp  for  the  rest 
of  us."  Neddy  walked  off  toward  the  barn  a  good 
deal  flattered  with  this  remark. 

"  It  seems  so  queer  that  Neddy  can  always  find 
everything,"  said  Margaret,  when  he  was  gone. 

The  evenings  were  quite  cool.  As  they  were 
seated  that  evening  around  the  broad  kitchen  fire- 
place, on  which  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  Marga- 
ret said : 

"  Father,  I've  just  been  wondering  where  we'll 
put  these  folks  when  they  come;  I  guess  we'll 
have  to  fix  up  a  place  in  the  garret  for  them." 

"Well,"  said  Billy, 'T  guess  that  will  do  very 
well." 


A   VISITOR.  43 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  Martha  and  me'll  fix  it 
up  to-morrow.  Frank  can  help.  I  wonder  when 
they'll  come  ?" 

**  In  a  few  days,  I  reckon.  We'll  git  word  afore 
they  come." 

Accordingly  the  next  day  the  garret  was  "  fixed 
up"  for  the  reception  of  the  strangers.  The  rub- 
bish which  usually  accumulates  in  such  a  place 
was  removed  to  the  part  over  the  new  end  of  the 
house,  and  that  over  the  old  end,  which  was  large 
and  roomy,  was  arranged  for  them  to  sleep  in.  A 
bedstead,  which  had  been  taken  apart  and  laid 
away,  was  put  up  and  corded.  A  bed-tick  was 
taken  to  the  barn  and  well  filled  with  clean  wheat 
.straw,  which  made  a  bed  good  enough  for  a  king. 
A  bolster,  pillows  and  bed  clothes  were  then  pro- 
cured, and  the  bed  was  soon  ready  for  the    guests. 

A  little  home-made  cradle,  which  had  rocked  suc- 
cessively all  the  young  Browns  in  their  babyhood, 
was  brought  out  from  among  the  rubbish  and  placed 
beside  the  bed,  for  the  little  one  that  was  expected. 
This  cradle  was  quite  a  curiosity  in  its  way,  having 
been  made  by  Billy  Brown  when  such  a  thing  was 
first  needed  in  the  family. 

It  was  made  of  oak  boards,  planed  off  and  nailed 
together  ;  the  rockers  had  been  worked  into  shape 
with  a  drawing  knife,  and  fastened  to  the  body  with 
long  nails.  It  was  a  very  rough  piece  of  workman- 
ship, but  answered  the  purpose  admirably.  When 
filled  with  the  little  straw-cradle-bed  and  small  pil- 
low, and  covered  with  the  cradle  quilt,  it  looked 
quite  inviting. 


44  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Frank  undertook  to  help  Martha  and  his  mother 
fix  up  the  garret ;  but  finding  in  one  corner  of  it  a 
half  dozen  Baer's  Almanacs,  filled,  he  said,  with 
"  nice  picters,"  and  a  pile  of  Village  Records  that 
had  been  lain  away  there,  the  services  he  rendered 
were  not  of  a  very  satisfactory  character. 

When  all  was  done,  Margaret  said:  "Now, 
Martha,  everything  is  ready  for  them.  They  will 
come  here  at  night  and  we  can  just  send  them  to 
bed  without  any  trouble." 

Billy  Brown  was  at  work  in  the  shop  that  day  as 
usual.  About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  Peggy 
Keys  came  along. 

"Well,  Billy,"  said  she,  "  when'll  thee  want  us 
to  go  to  work  at  the  corn.  Tommy's  bin  gittin' 
home  pine-knots  and  wood,  and  he'll  be  done  this 
week,  and  we  kin  go  to  work  at  it  next  week  if  thee 
wants  it  done  ;  but  some  people  thinks  it  had  better 
stand  a  while  yet ;  however,  I  don't  know  but  what 
it'll  do  well  enough  if  there  don't  a  warm  spell 
come,  and  even  if  there  did  thy  crib's  purty  open 
and  it  won't  be  likely  to  heat." 

"  You  can  begin  whenever  you  want  to,"  said 
Billy,  looking  up  momentarily,  and  then  resuming 
his  work. 

"  Well,  then,  I  guess  we'll  try  to  git  at  it  some 
time  next  week,"  said  she  ;  "  has  thee  any  fire  in 
the  hearth  there,  Billy  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  guess  so,  it's  most  gone  out  though  ; 
I  guess  there's  some  there." 

Peggy  then  stepped  toward  the  hearth,  took  out 
her  pipe  and  tobacco  from  her  ample  pocket,  filled 


A    VISITOR.  45 

the  pipe  carefully,  and  picking  up  a  long  shaving 
from  the  shop  floor,  proceeded  to  Hght  it,  and  then 
sat  down  on  a  large  block  near  by  to  enjoy  a  smoke. 

After  a  few  minute's  silence,  during  which  she 
puffed  diligently  away,  she  said  : 

"  Billy,  are  the  Orthodox  and  Hicksites  a  goin' 
to  go  together  agin  ?" 

"Why?"  said  Billy,  a  littled  startled  by  the 
abruptness  of  the  question  and  not  exactly  compre- 
hending it. 

"  Well,"  said  Peggy,  now  fully  enjoying  her 
smoke.  "  I  was  at  the  mill  yesterday ;  we  took 
down  a  little  corn  and  rye  to  git  ground  and  I  went 
along  to  tell  'em  how  I  wanted  it  done,  and  while 
I  was  there  I  seen  old  Josey  Bailey  ride  up,  and 
him  and  Grandfather  Carter  had  a  long  talk  together 
and  seemed  to  be  v^ery  sociable,  and  then  he  come 
up  this  way.  And  then  in  the  afternoon  I  was  over 
at  old  Sallie  Johnson's  to  git  some  weavin'  done, 
and  while  I  was  there  Bella  Fulton  come  there,  and 
she  sed  she  was  past  here  and  old  Josey  was  here 
talkin'  to  thee  and  Margaret,  and  I  jest  thought  that 
mebby  you  were  try  in  to  git  together  agin." 

The  length  of  this  speech  had  given  Billy  ample 
time  to  reflect,  and  he  saw  clearly  that  she  had 
come  on  purpose  to  find  out  on  what  business  the 
Orthodox  Friend  had  been  there  the  day  before. 

He  worked  away  more  busily  than  ever  and  said  : 

"  Don't  thee  think  it  would  be  better  for  us  to 
come  together  ?" 

"Yes  I  do,"  said  she  solemnly,  as  the  heavy 
clouds  of  smoke  rolled  upward  toward  the  roof  of 


46  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

the  shop.  "  If  they  can,  I  think  it  would  be  better, 
but  I  didn't  know  whether  they  were  tryin'  it  or  not 
for  certain,"  said  she  inquiringly. 

These  questions  were  getting  troublesome,  and 
he  determined  to  try  a  flank  movement. 

Looking  up  from  his  work  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  her  last  remark,  he  said :  *'  Peggy,  what  are 
you  goin'  to  charge  for  huskin'  corn  this  year?" 

This  remark  had  the  desired  effect.  Peggy's 
thoughts  were  at  once  diverted  from  their  original  ] 
channel,  and  blowing  out  a  large  volume  of  smoke, 
she  said,  sharply :  "  Well,  I  reckon  it's  wuth  as  much 
as  it  was  last  year  and  year  afore.  We  charged 
five  cents  a  barrel  then  and  nobody  grumbled." 

"  Some  people  are  doin'  it  for  four  cents,"  said 
Billy,  working  away  with  all  his  might. 

"  Well,  they're  welcome  to  the  job  if  they  want 
it,  but  they'll  not  do  it  like  we  do.  We  take  off 
the  husks  nice  and  clean,  strip  off  all  the  silk  and 
tie  up  the  fother  in  nice  little  sheaves.  Then  we 
shock  it  up  keerfully,  and  don't  leave  a  husk  or  a 
corn-stalk  layin'  around.  Besides,  when  we  mees- 
ure  the  corn  we  alius  shake  the  barrel  three  times, 
and  pile  as  many  ears  on  top  as'll  lay.  Nobody 
could  do  it  fairer  or  better'n  we  do;  thee  knows 
that  Billy." 

Billy  did  know  it,  and  he  had  not  the  slightest 
notion  of  getting  any  one  else  to  husk  the  corn  ; 
but  he  did  not  want  to  be  asked  any  more  ques- 
tions about  Friend  Bailey's  visit. 

"  Well,  Peggy,"  said  he,  "we'll  not  quarrel  about 
the  price,  if  you  do  the  work  well ;  but  thee  knows 


A    VISITOR.  47 

corn's  very  cheap  this  year,  and  I  want  to  have  it 
done  as  cheap  as  I  can.  You  may  go  to  work  at 
it  next  week  if  it  suits." 

Peggy  looked  satisfied  at  this,  knocked  the  ashes 
from  her  pipe,  deposited  it  in  her  pocket,  gazed  at  the 
creek  a  few  minutes,  asked  if  the  boys  were  "  goin* 
to  school  this  winter,"  and  finally  started  toward 
home,  saying  "  farewell"  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
shop. 

As  she  walked  slowly  up  the  road  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  wonder  what's  the  reason  Billy  wouldn't 
tell  me  what  old  Josey  was  after  yesterday.  I'll 
find  it  out  yet  some  day." 

This  was  Fourth-day,  and  at  half-past  ten 
o'clock  Billy  and  Margaret  Brown  started  to  Friends' 
meeting.  After  meeting  was  over,  Grandfather 
Carter  came  up  to  Billy  and  said,  quietly :  "  I  seen 
Davy  this  morning.  The  folks  have  come  all  safe. 
He'll  bring  them  to  your  house  to-morrow  night." 


chaptl:r  v. 


THE    FUGITIVES. 

"  Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 

Slaves  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 
Slaves — crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where  rollea  the  storm  of  Freedom's  war  !" 

Night  settled  down  dark  and  chill  in  the  vicinity 
of  Browji's  ford.  In  the  gloaming,  heavy  clouds 
were  seen  scudding  across  from  the  eastward,  and 
the  low  moaning  of  the  wind  through  the  forest 
betokened  an  approaching  storm.  From  the  tall 
oaks  on  Laurel  hill  great  owls  sent  forth  their 
"  who — hoo,  who — hoo,  who — hoo— e,"  which  was 
answered  by  others  from  the  direction  of  Carter's 
mill,  adding  to  the  gloom  and  loneliness  of  the 
scene. 

The  family  were  seated  around  the  broad  kitchen 
fire-place,  from  which  an  ample  fire,  blazing  up  the 
great  throat  of  the  chimney,  sent  light  and  heat 
throughout  the  room. 

"  The  owls  are  makin'  a  heap  of  noise  to-night," 
said  Billy,  looking  up  from  the  newspaper  which 
he  had  been  reading,  **  it's  a  purty  sure  sign  of  a 
storm.  I  guess  we're  going  to  have  the  Equinoc- 
tial." 

"  I  wonder  if  them  people  will  come  to-night," 
said  Margaret,  looking  out  into  the  impenetrable 
gloom  ;  "  it's  dreadful  dark." 

"  Yes,  they'll  come.  Davy  would  sooner  come  a 
dark  night  than  a  light  one,"  was  the  answer. 

48 


I 


THE    FUGITIVES.  49 

"  Poor  things  !"  said  she,  as  she  leaned  against 
the  window,  listening  to  the  low  murmuring  of  the 
wind. 

"  Did  thee  chain  Ring,  Henry  ?"  said  his  father. 

"  Yes,  I  chained  him,"  said  Henry,  who  was  busily 
engaged  in  making  a  "  pop-gun"  for  Frank. 

Ring  was  a  remarkably  quiet  and  peaceful  dog 
in  day-time;  but  watchful  and  even  savage  at 
night.  He  seemed  to  have  a  marked  dislike  for 
colored  persons,  and,  unless  it  was  some  one  he 
knew,  would  not  permit  one  to  approach  the  house 
even  in  day-time.  For  this  reason  it  was  thought 
best  to  have  him  chained  when  Davy  and  his 
people  were  expected. 

Whether  this  disposition  of  Ring's  was  a  natural 
prejudice  against  color;  or  a  vicious  habit,  learned 
him  in  his  youth  by  persons  who  wanted  to  frighten 
"  niggers,"  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  I  am  only 
sure  that  such  was  the  fact. 

The  clock  in  the  little  parlor  rang  out  the  hour 
of  nine,  and  yet  there  was  no  sound  of  approach- 
ing footseps.  Margaret  passed  out  on  the  porch 
and  listened.  The  great  owls  still  hooted  in  the 
forest  and  answered  each  other  from  hill  to  hill. 
The  wind,  freighted  with  dampness,  had  increased 
in  intensity,  and  shrieked  warnings  of  an  approach- 
ing storm.  With  a  silent  prayer  that  no  harm 
should  come  to  the  poor  wanderers,  she  quietly  re- 
turned into  the  house. 

"  Frank,  it's  time  for  him  to  go  to  bed,"  said  she, 
gently,  "  he  is  very  sleepy." 

"  No  I  ain't :  I  ain't  sleepy;  look  !"  said  the  boy, 
3 


50  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

opening   his  eyes  to  their  utmost  capacity.     "My; 
eyes  are  wide  open."  I 

The  mother  smiled  at  this  rather  strained  evi- 
dence of  wakefulness ;  but  he  was  allowed  to  re- 
main. 

About  half-past  nine' the  little  yard  gate  in  front 
of  the  kitchen  door  opened  and  swung  too,  foot- 
steps were  heard  on  the  porch,  and  a  quiet,  firm 
knock  against  the  kitchen  door  followed.  To  the 
response,  "  come  in,"  the  door  quietly  opened,  and 
a  gray-haired  mulatto  man,  slightly  made  and 
somewhat  stooped,  entered;  he  was  followed  by  a 
woman  some  25  or  30  years  old,  of  middle  size, 
darker  in  color  and  carrying  a  child  in  her  arms. 

A  man,  quite  tall,  about  the  same  age  and  color, 
wearing  a  high,  old-fashioned  hat,  followed  her. 

"  Why  Davy,"  said  Billy,  holding  out  his  hand, 
"  thee's  got  along.  It's  a  purty  dark  night,  ain't 
it  ?  Thee's  brought  the  folks  through.  Come  up 
to  the  fire." 

"  Yes,"  said  Davy,  taking  the  offered  hand,  and 
then  moving  toward  the  fire,  "  we've  got  along." 
Davy  was  a  man  of  few  words. 
Margaret  had  placed  chairs  for  the  three  near  the 
fire,  where  they  now  seated  themselves.     As  they 
sit  there  we  shall  introduce  our  readers  to  them 
more  fully. 

David  McCann,  or  "  Davy,"  as  he  was  usually 
called  by  those  who  knew  him,  was  a  mulatto  man, 
and,  at  the  time  of  the  occurrences  we  are  relating, 
was,  probably,  upward  of  seventy  years  of  age.  He 
lived  in  an  old  log  house  near  the  Conowingo  road, 


THE    FUGITIVES.  5 1 

not  far  from  where  the  line  now  divides  Fulton  and 
Little  Britain  townships,  and  about  two  miles  from 
the  Maryland  line.  The  old  house,  even  at  that  re- 
mote period,  had  a  tumble-down  appearance,  and 
has  since  entirely  disappeared.  It  was  situated  in 
an  open  common,  with  a  small  lot  near  by  fenced 
in  for  a  garden. 

Here  Davy,  with  his  wife  Nancy,  who  followed 
the  business  of  a  midwife,  had  lived  for  many  years  ; 
so  long,  indeed,  that  the  memory  of  the  oldest  in- 
habitant in  that  section  run  not  to  the  contrary. 

Tradition  had  it  that  he  at  one  time  was  a  slave, 
that  he  had  been  a  teamster  in  the  American  army 
during  the  Revolutionary  war,  and  received  his  free- 
dom as  a  reward  for  faithful  and  meritorious  services. 
Whether  these  were  facts  or  not,  one  thing  is  un- 
deniable: Davy  was  a  most  untiring  enemy  of  sla- 
very, and  a  safe  and  almost  invariably  successful 
guide  for  fugitives.  The  most  marvelous  tales 
were  told  of  his  achievements  in  that  line.  The 
public  mind  had  settled  down  into  the  conviction 
that  a  runaway  slave,  once  in  his  hands,  could  not 
be  recaptured.  Shrewd,  quick-witted  and  cool- 
headed,  with  a  knowledge  of  human  nature  that 
amounted  to  genius,  he  seemed  equal  to  any  emer- 
gency. It  was  said  that  at  one  time  some  runa- 
ways were  concealed  in  the  upper  story  of  the  old 
log  house  where  he  lived.  Their  owners  came 
there  in  pursuit  of  them,  with  the  conviction  in  their 
minds  that  they  were  there.  Davy  met  them  at 
the  door  and  so  charmed  them  with  his  apparent 
candor,  frankness  and  innocence,  that  they  left  the 


52  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

house  without  a  search,  convinced  that  they  had 
been  misinformed  in  regard  to  the  whereabouts  of 
their  slaves. 

At  another  time  he  was  arrested  while  in  Mary- 
land and  carried  to  Elkton,  and  there  placed  in  the 
county  jail,  on  charge  of  assisting  in  the  escape  of 
fugitives.  But  so  carefully  had  Davy  covered  up 
his  tracks,  that  not  a  jot  of  evidence  could  be  found 
against  him,  though  he  was  confined  there  for  nearly 
a  year. 

Looking  at  him  as  he  sat  before  the  blazing 
hearth  in  Brown's  kitchen,  on  that  gloomy  autumn 
evening,  he  was  indeed  a  study.  His  color  was 
about,  as  stated  in  the  song  of  "  Dan  Tucker,"  that 
of  a  "  chaw  of  terbacker."  His  head  was  high, 
with  the  organs  of  firmness  and  benevolence,  well 
developed,  while  his  forehead,  though  not  ample, 
was  well  proportioned  and  showed  a  decided  pre- 
dominance of  the  perceptive  or  observing  faculties. 
The  width  of  his  head  above  and  behind  the  ears 
showed  that  caution,  cunning  and  courage  were 
important  and  leading  elements  of  his  character. 

But  the  most  remarkable  feature  in  Davy's  ap- 
pearance was  his  eyes.  They  were  small,  black, 
restless,  deep-sunk  in  his  head,  and  seemed  to  have 
a  peculiar  fascination  about  them.  When  he  was 
sitting  quietly  they  were  bright,  piercing,  and  rest- 
less ;  but  when  excited  they  fairly  blazed  with  in- 
tensity, though  in  other  respects  he  would  seem 
perfectly  cool. 

One  of  his  marked  peculiarities,  and  one  that 
always  attracted  the  attention  of  strangers,  was  his 


THE    FUGITIVES.  53 

extravagant  use  of  tobacco.  It  was  rare  indeed  to 
see  him  without  a  mouthful  of  that  article.  He  con- 
sumed it  with  great  rapidity,  his  jaws  opening  and 
shutting  upon  it  as  though  they  were  run  by  machin- 
ery, while  he  squirted  the  juice  in  all  directions. 

The  two  who  accompanied  him  on  this  evening, 
as  our  readers  have  already  surmised,  were  John 
AND  Mary,  the  Fugitive  Slaves. 

John,  as  we  have  already  stated,  was  tall  and 
somewhat  slender.  He  was  of  a  dark  brown  color, 
and  had  a  peculiarly  stolid  look.  Whether  he 
yearned  for  freedom,  or  feared  a  return  to  slavery, 
his  appearance  gave  no  indication.  As  expression- 
less as  the  earth  he  trod  upon,  his  face  gave  no  clue 
to  whether  the  memories  of  the  past  or  the  hopes 
of  the  future  stirred  the  secret  recesses  of  his  heart. 
With  his  hat  in  his  hand,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  with- 
out the  outward  manifestations  of  a  single  emotion. 
He  was  there,  he  lived,  that  was  all. 

Not  so  with  Mary,  the  woman  by  his  side,  who 
still  holds  her  child  upon  her  knee,  where  he  has 
sunk  into  a  quiet  slumber.  Her  deep,  earnest  eye, 
as  it  rests  upon  her  sleeping  babe,  tells  eloquently 
what  emotions  stir  her  heart.  Her  face  is  a  strong 
one,  and  in  every  lineament. is  depicted  an  interest 
that  centers  in  him  alone.  All  the  diamonds  that 
glitter  in  the  crowns  of  the  world's  proudest  rulers; 
all  the  luxuries  in  which  the  nabobs  and  princes  of 
the  earth  are  reveling  ;  all  the  wealth  and  grandeur 
that  imagination  can  picture,  could  not  tempt  her 
for  one  moment  from  her  devotion  to  that  little, 
homeless,  helpless  child. 


54  JOHN    AND    MARY. 


The  maternal  feeling  speaks  out  in  every  feature, 
and  sweeps  over  every  other  emotion ;  it  would 
carry  her  through  fire  and  water,  to  martyrdom 
and  death,  rather  than  let  her  part  from  him. 

Margaret  Brown  gazed  at  her  long  and  earnestly, 
and  her  soft  hazel  eyes  filled  with  sympathetic 
tears.  Though  gentle  and  kind-hearted,  she,  too, 
had  a  goodly  share  of  prejudice  against  color.  But 
Mary's  tired,  weary  look  conquered  her  for  the 
time,  and  she  moved  softly  to  her  side  and  said : 

"  Let  me  have  the  little  one,  thee  looks  j"^  tired." 

"  No,  missus,"  was  the  reply,  as  she  clutched  him 
nervously,  "  I'll  hoi'  'im,  I'se  not  much  tired." 

But  Margaret  had  won  her  heart ;  the  woman 
followed  her  gratefully  with  her  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
her  face  relaxing  some  of  its  intensity,  and  soften- 
ing under  the  influence  of  unaffected  kindness. 

**  I'll  leave  these  people  with  you  for  a  little 
while,"  said  Davy, at  length;  "  I'll  take  'em away  in 
a  week  or  two.  I  'spect  I'll  be  round  afore  long  to  see 
you  again." 

**  Won't  thee  stay  all  night?"  inquired  Billy,"  it's 
mighty  dark  and  looks  as  if  it  was  goin'  to  rain." 

"  No,  'twon't  rain  afore  midnight,"  was  the  reply, 
**  and  I've  traveled  a  heap  at  night.  I'm  never 
afeard." 

So  Davy  arose  from  his  chair,  spoke  a  word  or 
two  to  John  and  Mary,  said  "  farewell"  to  the 
Browns,  and  started  out  into  the  dark,  cheerless, 
gloomy  night. 

Billy  Brown  followed  him  out,  and  closed  the 
door. 


THE    FUGITIVES.  55 

"  Davy,"  said  he,  "  doss  thee  think  anybody's 
lookin'  for  these  folks  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of  I  'spect  there'll  be,  though. 
But  I  reckon  I'll  find  'em  out  afore  they  git  'em." 

"  Thee'll  let  us  know,  then,  I  'spose  ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  let  you  know  in  time." 

Davy  now  started.  Billy  waited  until  he  was  some 
distance  away,  when  he  unchained  Ring  and  let  him 
run  at  large.     He  then  passed  into  the  house. 

Frank  had  fallen  asleep  and  been  carried  to  bed. 
The  "  boys"  had  retired  to  their  room,  and  were 
already  snoring.  Martha  had  also  gone  to  bed. 
Margaret  and  the  fugitives  remained. 

"  Mother,"  said  Billy,  as  he  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  "  I  'spose  it's  bed-time.  Will  thee  let  these 
people  see  where  they're  to  go?" 

She  lighted  a  tallow-candle  and  said  to  Mary: 
"  Come,  now,  and  I'll  show  thee  your  bed ;  then 
John  can  find  the  way  up."  Mary  follovv^ed  silently 
up  the  winding  stairs  to  the  garret,  where  their  bed 
had  been  prepared.  A  faint  expression  of  satisfac- 
tion passed  over  her  face  as  she  saw  the  comforta- 
ble bed  in  the  cradle  for  her  child,  and  when  the 
little  fellow  was  undressed  and  covered  up  nice  and 
warm,  she  fairly  broke  down.  "Oh  !  missus,"  said 
she,  "  de  people  here's  so  good;"  and  leaning  her 
dark  face  against  the  bedstead  wept  long  and  bit- 
terly. 

Margaret  waited  silently  until  her  emotion  sub- 
sided, and  then  pointing  to  some  night-clothes  that 
lay  on  the  chair  near  the  bed,  set  the  candle  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  and  said  : 


56  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

"  Leave  the  light  here,  and  when  you  are  in  bed 
I'll  come  and  get  it." 

She  then  passed  down-stairs,  and  directed  John 
to  go  up  and  leave  the  light  burning  till  some  one 
came  for  it.  In  a  few  minutes  Billy  ascended  to 
the  garret,  and,  looking  carefully  around  to  see  that 
nothing  was  on  fire,  carried  the  candle  back  to  the 
kitchen,  where  Margaret  still  remained. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  family  were  usually 
in  bed  at  nine  ;  but  still  these  two  lingered,  and  did 
not  feel  like  retiring.  The  occurrences  of  the  even- 
ing had  made  a  profound  impression,  and  given  them 
a  new  experience  in  real  life.  They  had  never  har- 
bored fugitive  slaves  before,  and  were  just  begin- 
ning to  realize  both  the  righteousness  of  the  act 
and  its  probable  consequences.  The  weary,  home- 
less creatures  in  the  garret  were  to  them  a  sacred 
charge,  but  they  could  not  forget  that  this  charge 
brought  with  it  a  good  deal  of  possible  danger. 

They  had  never  seen  slave-hunters,  but  had  heard 
fearful  tales  of  their  cruelty,  not  only  to  runaways, 
but  to  those  who  harbored  and  assisted  them. 
They  knew  but  little  about  the  law,  but  had  a  vague 
idea  that  it  punished  severely  any  one  who  helped 
away  a  fugitive  slave.  It  is  no  wonder,  therefore, 
that  a  certain  feeling  of  uneasiness  crept  over  them 
as  they  thought  of  these  things. 

But  any  one  who  might  have  supposed  it  to  be  an 
easy  matter  to  takes  these  fugitives  away  by  force, 
would  have  found  himself  wofully  mistaken.  Though 
Billy  Brown  was  a  man  who  never  sought  a  quar- 
rel, it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  shrink  from  one. 


THE    FUGITIVES. 


57 


He  construed  the  doctrine  held  by  Friends,  in  re- 
lation to  turning  the  other  cheek  when  one  was 
smitten,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  and  had  not  the  slight- 
est faith  in  its  literal  application.  Besides,  he  was 
a  powerful  man  physically,  as  we  have  already 
stated,  and  would  not  hesitate  to  use  his  utmost  ef- 
forts in  a  cause  so  manifestly  just. 

"  What'll  we  do,  father,"  said  Margaret,  inquir- 
ingly, after  they  had  been  seated  for  some  time,  "  if 
they  should  come  here  for  John  and  Mary  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  come,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Well,  but  if  they  do  ?" 

"  Well,  T  guess  we'll  have  to  try  and  keep  'em 
off.  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  them  folks  carried  back  ; 
would  thee  ?" 

"  No,"  wearily,  "  but  it's  dreadful  late.  Hadn't 
we  better  go  to  bed.     I'll  cover  the  fire." 

That  done,  weary  and  tired,  they  sought  repose, 
and  were  soon  wrapped  in  the  quiet  embrace  of  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


PASSING    EVENTS. 

"View  them  near 

At  home,  where  all  their  worth  and  power  are  placed; 

And  where  their  hospitable  fires  burn  clear, 
And  there  the  lowest  farm-house  hearth  is  graced 

With  manly  hearts,  in  piety  sincere." 

Henry  Brown,  and  Samuel  Weaver,  the  appren- 
tice, awakened  before  daylight  the  next  morning 
and  found  the  storm  had  broken  in  full  fury.  The 
rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  while  the  wind 
shrieked  around  the  building  like  the  wailing  of 
unquiet  spirits.  They  arose,  and  dressing  them- 
selves in  the  darkness,  groped  their  way  to  the 
kitchen.  Here  they  proceeded  to  make  the  fire. 
Drawing  forward  the  live  coals  which  had  been 
covered  with  ashes,  they  deposited  the  latter  in  an 
old  tin  bucket  that  was  used  for  the  purpose  ;  and. 
then  proceeded  to  put  the  *'  back-log"  in  position 
This  was  an  immense  log,  usually  gnarled  or  knotty, 
and  was  laid  at  the  back  of  the  fire-place,  against 
the  wall.  The  andirons  were  then  put  in  their 
places  and  a  much  smaller  log  placed  on  them  ;  this 
was  called  the  fore-stick.  The  space  between  the 
back-log  and  fore-stick  was  now  filled  up  with 
smaller  wood,  and  on  top  of  it  the  coals  that  had 
been  preserved  were  placed.  Some  kindling,  that 
had  been  brought  from  the  shop  the  evening  before, 
was  then  applied,  and  soon  a  cheerful  fire  rewarded 
their  labors. 

Henry  then  took  the  iron  tea-kettle,  which  was 
58 


I 


PASSING    EVENTS.  59 

sitting  on  the  dish-bench,  filled  it  with  spring 
water,  that  had  been  brought  up  the  evening  be- 
fore, and  hung  it  over  the  fire  to  boil.  He  then 
lighted  a  tallow-candle,  carried  it  up  to  Martha's 
room  door  and  awakened  her,  saying  it  was  time  to 
get  up. 

John  and  Mary  came  down  at  the  first  appearance 
of  daylight,  leaving  the  little  boy  still  sleeping. 

The  "  old  folks,"  as  Margaret  and  Billy  were 
called  by  the  boys,  slept  later  than  usual,  and  when 
they  appeared  breakfast  was  nearly  ready. 

The  table  where  Neddy  eat  when  there,  was  set 
out  for  the  fugitives,  and  a  plentiful  meal  placed  on 
it ;  they  eat  but  little,  however,  and  Mary  left  the 
table  to  go  up-stairs  for  her  boy.  She  soon  brought 
him  down  and  seated  him  near  the  fire. 

"Neddy '11  hardly  be  here  to-day,"  said  Billy, 
"  It's  raining  too  hard.  John,  I  had  intended  thee 
to  help  him  thrash;  can  thee  thrash?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  John,  mechanically. 

"It's  too  damp  to  thrash  to-day;  I  guess  thee 
may  clean  out  the  stables.  Does  thee  know  how 
to  do  that?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  dun  clean  *em  out." 

"I'll  show  thee  how  we  do  it;  there's  not  much 
else  for  thee  to  do  to-day,  it's  so  wet." 

After  breakfast  Billy  accompanied  John  to  the 
barn  and  instructed  him  in  the  art  and  mystery  of 
cleaning  stables.  There  was  not  much  to  do,  and 
he  expected  the  job  would  be  finished  before  din- 
ner. He  then  repaired  to  the  shop,  where  he  and 
the  boys  worked  industriously  till  noon. 


6o  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

"What  does  thee  call  the  little  boy,  Mary?"  said 
Margaret,  after  the  men  had  gone  from  break- 
fast. 

"  I  calls  him  Charley,  Missus,"  said  she,  "  dats 
what  de  one's  name  'at  died;  I  calls  dis  one  de  same." 

"  Is  this  the  only  one  thee  has  livin'  ?" 

"  No,  Missus,  I'se  got  for  mor',  ges  dey's  livin',  I 
dunno  tho.  Dey  sol'  'em  to  Georgi.  I'se  not  seen 
none  uv  'em  for  dis  tree  years.  Dis  one  cum  since, 
an'  I  fetched  him  away.  I  clar  to  God,  Missus,  it 
ud  kill  me  if  dey'd  take  dat  chile.  Fore  God,  I'd 
sooner  see  'im  put  in  dat  fire  an'  burn  to  ashes." 

Her  eye  gleamed  with  a  dangerous  fire  as  she 
said  this,  and  the  strong  lines  of  her  face  stood  out 
with  wonderful  distinctness.  She  evidently  meant 
what  she  said. 

Margaret  was  startled.  She  was  not  prepared 
for  such  an  outburst  of  passionate  earnestness.  It 
was  so  unlike  anything  she  had  been  used  to,  in 
her  intercourse  with  the  quiet  and  peaceful  people 
of  that  section,  that  she  thought  it  must  be  wicked. 
At  any  rate,  such  a  spirit  was  directly  at  variance 
with  the  teachings  of  Friends,  and  felt  exceedingly 
unpleasant  to  her.  But  she  could  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  rebuke  the  woman,  whose  wrongs  excited 
her  warmest  sympathy  ;  so  she  was  silent. 

When  the  family  were  called  to  dinner,  Billy 
went  to  the  barn  to  see  how  John  had  progressed 
with  his  work.  He  found  he  had  accomplished 
very  little,  and  scolded  him  for  getting  along  so 
slowly.  The  fugitive  received  this,  as  he  did  every- 
thing, else,  with  stolid  indifference. 


J 


PASSING    EVENTS.  6 1 

Friend  Brown  did  not  know  then,  as  everybody 
has  learned  since,  that  the  slave,  as  a  rule,  did  not 
do  half  as  much  work  in  the  same  time  as  a  free 
man,  and  that  habits  of  sloth  thus  formed,  while 
in  slavery,  were  not  easily  got  rid  of 

The  storm  continued  through  the  day  with  un- 
abated fury.  Dark  clouds  came  up  from  the  east- 
ward, seeming  almost  to  touch  the  tops  of  the  great 
oaks  on  Laurel  hill,  as  they  sailed  through  the 
heavy,  cheerless  atmosphere.  The  rain  came  down 
fitfully,  sometimes  in  heavy  gusts,  and  anon  would 
subside  for  a  few  minutes  into  a  gentle  sh  ower. 
The  cattle  came  in  early  from  the  field  and  took 
shelter  under  the  shedding  behind  the  barn.  The 
chickens  wandered  about  in  the  rain,  the  tail  feath- 
ers of  the  roosters  draggling  in  the  little  pools  that 
filled  every  hollow  or  inequality  of  the  ground,  and 
sought  their  roosts  long  before  night  came  on^ 
The  little  brook  that  coursed  along  the  foot  of  Laurel 
hill  was  swollen  into  an  angry  flood,  and  the  Octo- 
rara  itself  had  risen  so  as  to  be  hardly  passable 
at  the  ford. 

It  was  indeed  a  dull  and  gloomy  day.  Not  a 
soul  had  been  seen  to  pass  along  the  road,  though 
Mary's  watchful  eye  was  on  the  lookout  the  live- 
long day. 

Before  darkness  settled  down,  however,  the  wind 
veered  round  to  the  north-west,  and  a  streak  of  light 
in  the  direction  of  sunset  indicated  that  the  storm 
had  subsided.  The  prospect  was  that  the  morrow 
would  be  clear. 

It  was  no  false  promise.  The  morning  was  clear 
3* 


62  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

and  cool,  and  with  the  first  streak  of  Hght  came 
Neddy.  It  was  Seventh-day  and  he  had  come  to 
"  clean  up"  the  wheat  he  had  thrashed.  This  he 
could  do  by  noon,  and  Neddy  was  opposed  to 
working  on  Seventh-day  afternoon,  when  he  could 
avoid  it. 

He  was  informed  that  John  was  the  fugitive  of 
whom  he  had  been  told  a  few  days  before  ;  and  he 
looked  at  him  with  much  the  air  that  a  well-to-do 
house  dog  would  be  supposed  to  regard  a  hungry 
cur  who  was  quartered  on  him  for  the  purpose  of 
consuming  a  portion  of  his  rations. 

But  his  eye  softened  when  it  rested  on  Mary. 
He  was  a  man  of  no  mean  penetration  and  he  could 
not  fail  to  observe  her  complete  devotion  to  her 
child.  Perhaps  memory  carried  him  back  to  a  time 
when  a  dark-faced  woman  tended  his  little  ones,  and 
a  soft,  plaintive  voice,  now  hushed  forever,  filled  his 
humble  home  with  pleasant  music. 

Neddy  and  John  cleaned  up  the  grain  and  put  it 
into  bags.  They  were  done  before  noon,  and  Ned- 
dy walked  down  to  the  shop.  "  Well,"  said  he 
**  I'se  done  de  wheat;  guess  I'll  not  work  no  more, 
to-day." 

"  How  does  the  man  do  ?"  said  Billy. 

**  He's  no  'count,  none  uv  'em  is.  I'se  tried  'em 
afore." 

**  Well,"  said  Billy,  "  we  must  keep  him  a  while, 
and  he  may  as  well  do  sumthin'.  I  want  thee  to 
thrash  next  week.  On  Second-day  thee  must  thrash 
rye.  Peggy  Keys  is  a  goin'  to  begin  huskin'  next 
week,  and  we  must  have  rye  straw  for  the  fother 


i 


PASSING    EVENTS. 


63 


Henry's  goin'  to  Harford  county  on  Second-day, 
with  a  new  dearborn,  and  I  want  Sammy  in  the  shop. 
John  can  help  thee  thrash  the  rye  and  when  that 
is  done  him  and  the  boys  may  go  to  the  woods. 
They've  got  very  Httle  of  the  winter's  wood  cut  yet." 

Neddy  was  rather  pleased  that  John  was  not  to 
work  with  him  much  longer  ;  but  he  still  muttered 
something  about  him  being  "despit  wuthless." 

After  dinner  Neddy  left,  with  the  promise  to  re- 
turn on  Second-day  morning.  Before  he  started 
he  informed  his  employer  that  he  was  in  need  of 
funds.  He  had  worked  five  days  and  a  half,  and 
Billy  went  to  his  secretary,  and  unlocking  it,  took 
out  five  silver  half  dollars,  and  one  quarter,  and 
handed  them  to  him.  Neddy  then  left,  and  Billy 
promptly  entered  the  payment,  with  a  piece  of 
chalk,  on  the  partition  close  by  the  cellar-door. 

In  the  afternoon  Frank  came  running  into  the 
house  ;  "  Oh  !  mother,"  said  he,  **  Grandfather  Car- 
ter's a  comin'." 

"  Is  he  ?"  said  Margaret,  "  well,  set  the  rocking- 
chair  there  in  the  corner  for  him." 

The  old  man  soon  came  in,  and  after  the  usual 
salutations,  seated  himself  in  his  accustomed  place. 
He  visited  Brown's  frequently,  and  felt  quite  at  home, 
seated  near  the  broad  fire-place,  where  he  could 
squirt  his  tobacco  juice  without  doing  any  particu- 
lar damage.  Margaret  complained  a  little  some- 
times, after  he  had  gone,  about  this  filthy  habit ; 
but  she  had  great  regard  for  the  old  man  and 
always  treated  him  with  the  most  profound  re- 
spect. 


64  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Both  these  families  were  particularly  careful  in 
attending  Friends'  meeting.  On  First-day,  espe- 
cially, they  insisted  on  all,  who  possibly  could,  to 
turn  out.  It  was  this  that  had  brought  him  up  to 
Brown's  that  afternoon. 

**  Margaret,"  said  he,  after  being  seated,  as 
he  placed  both  hands  on  the  top  of  his  silver-headed 
cane,  and  leaned  his  chin  against  them,  "  I  see 
you've  got  some  strangers." 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "they  came  on  Fifth-day 
night." 

•'They'll  be  with  you  some  time,  and  it  won't  do 
very  well  for  you  all  to  go  to  meetin'  to-morrow, 
and  leave  them  here  alone." 

Margaret  looked  troubled.  The  idea  of  violence 
was  unpleasant  to  her,  and  her  mind  reverted  to  the 
probability  of  a  visit  from  slave-catchers.  "  Does 
thee  think  anybody'll  come  after  'em,  grandfather?' 
she  said. 

"  I've  not  heard  of  anybody  being  about,  but  we 
can't  tell  what  might  happen,"  said  the  old  man, 
raising  his  head  and  squirting  a  great  stream  of 
tobacco  juice  diagonally  across  the  fire,  "we've  got 
these  people  here  and  we  ain't  a  goin'  to  have  them 
carried  back  if  we  can  help  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  father  will  say ;  Frank,  call 
him  and  we'll  see." 

So  Billy  was  called,  and  he  agreed  that  the  fugi- 
tives must  not  be  left  alone.  It  was  settled  that 
Henry  and  Sammy  should  stay  at  home,  and  the 
rest  would  go  to  meeting  as  usual. 

But  the  quiet  First-day  passed  away  without  an 


PASSING    EVENTS.  65 

incident.  No  stranger  appeared,  and  even  Mary 
began  to  feel  more  secure.  Grandfather  Carter,  on 
his  long-legged  horse  "  Bob,"  under  pretense  of- 
talking  to  Billy  about  some  wheel-wright  stuff,  rode 
round  to  Brown's  ford  to^  see  that  all  was  right, 
and  looked  quite  satisfied  when  he  saw  the  "boys" 
sitting  quietly  on  the  porch.  Under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances they  would  have  received  a  sound 
scolding  for  being  absent  from  meeting. 

Second  day  morning  brought  Neddy ;  and  he  and 
John  went  to  work  at  the  rye.  Henry  was  up  be- 
times and  started  for  Harford  county  with  the  new 
dearborn.  Ring  had  followed  him,  a  circumstance 
which  caused  great  grief  to  Frank  when  he  awak- 
ened an  hour  or  two  afterward. 

The  day  passed  quietly  away.  Neddy  quit  work 
at  sundown,  and,  closing  the  great  barn-doors, 
started  toward  Carter's  mill.  **  Till  "  had  directed 
him  to  bring  her  some  flour,  and  he  knew  better 
than  to  disobey.  She  had  not  proved  herself  a 
gentle  and  loving  companion  to  him,  but  he  always 
tried  to  keep  the  peace  and  get  along  as  quietly  as 
possible.  So  he  was  prompt  to  do  whatever  she 
required  when  it  was  within  the  bounds  of  reason. 

After  having  his  little  bag  filled  with  flour  he 
placed  it  on  his  shoulder  and  started  toward  home. 
For  some  undefined  reason  he  did  not  feel  cheerful 
that  evening.  He  had  drawn  out  of  John  during 
the  day  some  of  the  reasons  why  he  had  left  his 
master,  and  his  sympathies  had  been  considerably 
excited.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  contempt  for  him 
as  a  "  pore  wuthless  critter,"  a3  he  had  for  every- 


66  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

body  who  could  not  do  a  big  day's  work,  but  in 
spite  of  that  he  pitied  him,  and  regretted  that  he 
had  spoken  harshly  about  him.  But  his  warmest 
sympathies  were  excited  for  Mary,  He  observed 
her  complete  devotion  to  the  child,  and  saw,  to  use 
his  own  words,  that  she  was  "a mighty  clever  kind 
of  a  woman."  He  also  knew  that  the  probabilities 
were  that  the  slave-catchers,  or  "kidnappers,* 
would  be  on  their  track,  and  already  his  mind  was 
filled  with  schemes  or  plans  for  their  protection,  or 
release  if  captured. 

Neddy  walked  swiftly  forward  on  the  road  leading 
south  from  Carter's  mill,  until  he  crossed  Black 
run  and  reached  the  foot  oi"  Goat  hill;  he  then 
turned  to  the  left,  up  a  narrow  path  which  led 
around  the  eastern  siue  of  the  hill,  through  pines 
and  black-jacks,  in  the  direction  of  his  humble  home. 
Pursuing  this  for  a  hundred  yards  or  more,  he  came 
t  ^  a  narrow  glen  which  indented  the  eastern  side 
of  the  hill,  and  down  wnich  a  little  rivulet  flowed; 
when,  turning  abruptly  to  the  right,  he  followed 
the  path  toward  the  head  of  the  glen,  some  fifty 
yards  away. 

Here  was  situated  the  rude  log  cabin  which  Neddy 
called  his  home.  It  was  built  of  pine  logs  and  cov- 
ered with  boards,  and  had  but  two  apartments,  a 
kitchen  below  and  the  attic  above.  The  building 
was  of  the  rudest  kind,  the  kitchen  floor  being 
uneven  and  ricketty,  and  the  walls  simply  pine  logs, 
with  the  openings  filled  with  clay.  The  apartment 
had  but  one  window,  composed  of  four  small  panes 
of  glass,  through  which  faint  rays  of  light  struggled 


PASSING    EVENTS.  67 

into  the  dingy  and  desolate-looking  room.  The 
door  was  in  keeping  with  the  rest,  being  made  of 
rude  boards,  poorly  fitted  together,  and  hung  on 
wooden  hinges.  It  was  fastened  on  the  inside  with 
a  wooden  latch,  and  could  be  opened  from  the  out- 
side by  a  string,  passed  through  asmall  hole  for  that 
purpose. 

A  few  yards  from  the  door  of  the  hut,  in  a  clump 
of  tall  pines,  was  a  spring  of  clear,  sweet  water,  from 
which  the  little  rivulet  to  which  we  have  referred 
flowed.  Close  by  was  a  small  lot  fenced  in  for  a 
garden,  but  beside  this  there  was  no  evidence  of  cul- 
tivation within  sight. 

Neddy  approached  the  hut,  pulled  the  string  on 
the  outside,  pushed  open  the  door,  which  dragged 
heavily  against  the  uneven  floor,  entered,  and  depos- 
ited his  bag  of  flour  on  a  rude  bench  near  the  door, 
saying : 

**  Here's  yer  flour." 

This  remark  was  addressed  to  his  wife.  Till,  a 
woman  some  sixty  years  of  age,  to  whom  we  have 
already  referred. 

She  was  quite  dark,  larger  than  ordinary  women, 
and.  had  a  sullen  and  forbidding  appearance.  Dressed 
in  clothes  that  had  not  lately  seen  the  wash-tub, 
with  a  dark,  din^;y-looking  cotton  handkerchief 
bound  around  her  head,  she  looked  the  very  coun- 
terpart of  the  room  in  which  she  stood. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  looking  sullenly  into  the 
fire  of  green  pine,  which  burned  slowly  on  the 
hearth,  said: 

"  Ben's  'yer." 


68  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

*' Whar  is  'e?"  said  Neddy  with  a  start.  "What's 
'e  doinyer?" 

"  Thar  he  is,"  said  Till,  pointing  to  a  dark  corner 
of  the  room,  where,  on  a  low  stool,  sat  a  strapping, 
black,  beastly-looking  fellow,  with  an  immense 
mouth,  thick,  flat  head,  and  a  vacant  expression 
about  the  eyes  indicating  a  low  degree  of  men- 
tality. 

This  was  Ben  Boodly,  Till's  son  by  a  former  mar- 
riage. He  was  a  worthless  creature,  and  led  a 
wandering,  vagabond  life,  sometimes  not  being  seen 
in  that  neighborhood  for  months  ;  then  he  would 
appear  again  and  hang  about  Neddy's  for  weeks, 
much  to  the  latter's  disapprobation. 

Ben  would  work  a  day  or  two  now  and  then,  but 
was  generally  idle,  and  it  was  a  mystery  to  some 
who  knew  him  how  he  managed  to  get  along  at 
all. 

Neddy  would  gladly  have  forbidden  him  the 
house,  but  feared  Till,  who  always  took  his  part. 

Neddy  turned  around  and  passed  out  at  the  door. 
He  did  not  enjoy  his  home  very  much  at  the 
best ;  but  when  Ben  was  about,  his  discomfort  was 
greatly  increased. 

A  cool  wind  was  blowing  from  the  north-west,  but 
the  hill  in  the  rear  of  the  hut  sheltered  the  little 
glen,  and  the  air  there  was  quite  pleasant.  There 
was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  shone  out  with  unusual 
brilliancy,  and  not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen.  Neddy 
passed  over  to  the  clump  of  pines  at  the  spring  and 
sat  down  on  a  large  stone,  leaning  his  back  against 
a  stately  pine. 


i 


PASSING    EVENTS.  69 

His  mind  was  disturbed  and  he  felt  unhappy. 

The  presence  of  Ben  was  always  a  source  of  irri- 
tation, and  fears  for  the  safety  of  the  fugitives,  that 
he  knew  to  be  in  the  neighborhood,  occasioned  him 
unrest.  His  mind  reverted  to  the  time  when  he 
had  been  a  slave,  and  though  well  used,  he 
shrank  with  horror  from  the  idea  of  ever  being  in 
that  condition  again.  He  thought  of  Mary  and 
her  great  devotion  to  the  little  one  whom  she 
had  brought  away  from  slavery  ;  and  his  mind  un- 
consciously reverted  to  the  mother  of  his  little  ones 
who  had  long  since  passed  away.  Coming  back  to 
the  present  he  thought  of  Till,  her  coarse,  unfeeling 
behavior  toward  him,  and  the  unhappy  life  he  was 
forced  to  lead  ;  and  mentally  contrasted  the  pleasure 
of  his  early  wedded  life  with  the  present. 

The  wind  sighed  mournfully  through  the  pines, 
and  its  low,  gentle  murmur,  soothed  his  unquiet 
spirit.  Far  up  on  Goat  hill  the  drowsy  tinkling  of 
a  distant  cow-bell  sounded  faintly  on  his  ear.  In 
the  distance  could  be  heard  the  dull  roar  of  Carter's 
dam,  as  the  water,  still  swollen  by  the  recent  rain, 
swept  over  its  broad  breast. 

Neddy  was  tired,  and  these  soothing  sounds  un- 
consciously lulled  him  to  repose.  The  music  of  the 
pines  sounded  more  and  more  faintly,  the  tinklings 
of  the  cow-bell  were  less  and  less  perceptible,  while 
the  roar  of  the  dam  sunk  into  a  whisper,  and  then 
ceased  entirely — Neddy  was  asleep. 

He  slept  long  and  soundly.  When  he  awoke 
the  stars  told  him  that  it  was  near  midnight.  He 
arose  and  entered  the  house.     The  fire  smouldered 


70  JOHN   AND   MARY.  J 

on  the  hearth,  and  Till  had  gone  to  bed  and  was 
sound  asleep.  He  lighted  a  lamp,  which  consisted 
of  some  lard  in  an  old  saucer,  into  which  a  piece  of 
candle-wick  had  been  placed,  to  look  for  Ben.  He 
examined  the  kitchen  and  ascended  into  the  loft, 
3ut  could  not  find  him. 

Ben  had  gone. 

With  a  muttered  imprecation  on  that  "wuthless 
critter,"  Neddy  retired  to  his  bed. 

The  Brown  family  were,  as  usual,  seated  m  front 
of  the  broad  kitchen  fire-place  that  evening.  As 
the  last  faint  ray  of  daylight  disappeared  in  the 
west,  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  kitchen  door,  and 
in  response  to  the  invitation  to  '*  come  in,"  the  door 
opened,  and  Joe  Simmons  entered.  He  had  in  one 
hand  a  double-barrelled  shot-gun,  and  around  his 
shoulders  were  slung  powder-horn  and  shot-pouch. 
In  the  other  hand  he  carried  a  couple  of  fine-look- 
ing gray  squirrels  which  had  fallen  victims  to  his 
unerring  aim. 

"  Why,  Joe,"  said  Margaret,  running  to  the  door 
and  holding  out  her  hand,  "how  is  thee;  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  thee." 

Billy  was  less  demonstrative,  but  Joe  was  a  great 
favorite  of  his.  He  extended  a  cordial  welcome, 
and  taking  his  gun  and  powder  and  shot,  laid  them 
away,  while  Joe  took  a  seat  near  the  fire. 

"Well,  Peggy,"  said  Joe,  after  being  seated, 
"  how  is  she  ?  Here,  I've  brought  her  a  couple  of 
squirrels  to  make  a  pot-pie.  I  come  down  on  pur- 
pose to  eat  one  of  her  pot-pies. 


PASSING    EVENTS.  7 1 

"Yes,  I'll  make  thee  a  pot-pie;  but  thee  ain't 
had  supper?" 

"No,  I  haven't,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Joe,  laughing, 
"  can  she  get  me  some  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we'll  have  it  ready  in  a  little 
while." 

So  while  they  are  getting  supper,  we  will 
make  our  readers  better  acquainted  with  Joe  Sim- 
mons. 

They  already  know  that  he  is  a  bachelor,  and 
that  Margaret  was  his  housekeeper  before  her  mar- 
riage with  William  Brown.  No  better  hearted, 
cleverer  fellow  ever  lived  than  Joe ;  but  in  many 
respects  he  was  a  most  eccentric  creature.  He  had 
been  raised  a  Friend,  but  had  become  a  confirmed 
Free-thinker,  and  did  not  attempt  the  slightest  con- 
cealment of  that  fact.  Indeed,  he  openly  spoke  of 
having  read  the  works  of  Paine,  Voltaire  and  Vol- 
ney,  and  defended  their  doctrines.  He  would  talk 
and  argue  all  day  on  the  subject  of  theology,  if  op- 
portunity offered,  neglecting  important  business 
matters  for  that  purpose.  He  was  quite  well  read 
on  general  subjects,  and  no  mean  opponent  in  a 
discussion.  He  often  attended  neighboring  debat- 
ing clubs,  and  was  noted  for  his  profusion  of  quaint, 
curious  illustrations,  which  usually  produced  great 
merriment  among  the  listeners.  He  was  remarka- 
bly gentle  and  kind-hearted,  and  Margaret  Brown, 
who  had  known  him  long  and  well,  was  accustom- 
ed to  say  that  "  no  honester  man  ever  broke 
bread." 

He  had  a  habit  of  talking  a  great  deal  about  get 


72 


JOHN    AND    MARY 


ting  himself  a  wife,  and  was  constantly  promising 
to  pay^  his  addresses  to  one  and  anotlier;  but  it  was 
pretty  well  ascertained  that  Joe  had  never  made 
the  slightest  attempt  at  courting  in  his  life. 

He  was  a  great  sportsman.  Hunting  was  his 
delight,  and  there  was  no  surer  shot,  or  one  who 
understood  the  habits  of  game  better,  in  that  sec- 
tion of  country,  than  Joe  Simmons. 

While  supper  was  being  prepared,  Billy  and  Joe| 
talked  over  old  times  ;  at  length,  looking  at  the  two 
fugitives,  Joe  said : 

"  Who's  these  people  thee's  got  here,  Billy?" 

"  Some  that  Daw  brouq-ht  along;,"  was  the 
reply. 

Looking  closely  at  Mary,  he  observed  her  anxious 
and  eager  face,  and  said:  "  She  need'nt  be  afraid 
to-night.  I've  got  a  couple  of  good  loads  in  that 
gun  there ;  either  of  'em  would  fetch  a  kidnapper. 
I'll  keep  'em  off  to-night." 

''  Come  now,"  said  Margaret,  "  supper's  ready." 

After  supper  Mary  and  John  went  to  bed.  Mar- 
garet and  Martha  put  away  the  things,  and  then  the 
latter  also  left,  taking  Frank,  who  had,  as  usual, 
fallen  asleep.  The  apprentice  went  to  his  room,  and 
Joe  was  left  with  Margaret  and  Billy. 

The  three  fell  into  conversation.  "Where's 
Henry?"  inquired  Joe. 

"  Gone  to  Harford  with  a  new  dearborn.  He  took 


the   doer  alonof,  too. 
night." 


Ring  ought  to  be  here  to- 


"Oh.  I  reckon  there's  no  danger  to-night,"  said 
Joe.    "  But   Billy,  does  thee   know  that  it  is  out 


PASSING    EVENTS.  73 

about  runaways  bein'  here  ?  That's  what  brought 
me  down." 

"Who  knows  it?"  said  both  in  one  breath. 

Joe  looked  more  serious  than  he  had  yet  done, 
and  said  in  low  tones,  **  Sam  Doan." 

"  Merciful  Creator !"  exclaimed  Margaret,  "does 
that  wretch  know  it  ?   Is  thee  sure  he  does  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  sure.  The  hired  man  who  works  for 
me  drinks  a  little  sometimes,  and  last  night  he  was 
on  a  spree  over  at  Twaddle's.  Sam  was  there, 
pretty  well  corned,  and  the  man  heard  him  telling 
a  stranger,  who  was  a  pretty  hard-lookin'  fellow 
too,  that  there  was  some  runaway  niggers  at  Billy 
Brown's.     He  told  me  this  morning. 

Margaret  looked  deeply  distressed.  She  knew 
Sam  Doan,  and  knew  him  to  be  a  reckless  outlaw, 
who  feared  neither  God  nor  man.  He  had  been 
the  terror  of  her  childhood  and  youth,  and  her 
cheek  blanched  with  fear  whenever  she  chanced  to 
meet  him  in  the  public  highway.  She  had  not  a 
doubt  that  he  would  assist  to  kidnap  these  poor 
creatures,  if  by  so  doing  he  could  secure  a  reward. 

"  It's  in  bad  hands,"  said  Billy,  "that's  sartin.  I 
must  see  Davy  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  about  it. 

"Yes,"  remarked  Joe,  "  Davy  understands  these 
matters  better  than  any  of  us.  I  never  knew  him 
to  fail  in  a  case  yet.  He'd  better  be  seen  pretty 
soon." 

The  conversation  then  changed.  "  Peggy,"  said 
Joe,  "  does  thee  go  to  meetin'  as  reg'lar  as  ever  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  go  whenever  I  can." 

"  She  used  to  go  very  reg'lar  when  she  kep* 
4 


74  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

house  for  me,'^  said  he,  laughing,  "but  I  thought 
mebby  she  wouldn't  care  so  much  about  it  after 
she  got  married." 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  a  joke,  but  Mar- 
garet laughed  it  off.  Joe  was  always  permitted  to 
say  what  he  chose. 

**  I've  been  r^adin'  a  good  deal  of  Elias  Hicks* 
works  this  fall,"  pursued  Joe,  "  they're  mighty  in- 
terestin'." 

"  How  does  thee  like  'em  ?"  said  Margaret,  hop- 
ing that  his  views  of  religion  had  undergone  a 
change. 

"  Well,  I  like  'em  purty  well.  Elias  has  some 
very  good  idees.  He's  a  great  improvement  on 
the  ancient  Friends,  .but  I  don't  think  his  doctrines 
are  quite  as  sound  as  Paine's." 

Margaret  looked  deeply  shocked.  She  had  a 
warm,  sisterly  affection  for  the  good-hearted  fellow  ; 
but  his  notions  of  religion  gave  her  intense  pain. 

"  Oh  !  Joe,  how  can  thee  talk  so.  Thee  wasn't 
brought  up  with  such  dreadful  notions.  What 
would  thy  mother  say  if  she  was  here,  to  hear  such 
talk  ?  Tm  sure  Elias  Hicks  believed  every  word 
of  the  Scriptures." 

"  If  he  did  he'd  a  poor  way  of  tellin'  it.  But  he 
was  a  great  man,  I  admit  that." 

"  He  believed  it  in  his  way,"  interrupted  Billy, 
"he  spiritualized  some  passages.'' 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe,  **  if  a  man  was   allowed  to  ex-J 
plain  everything  to  suit  himself  he  could  believe  al 
that  was  ever  written." 

Margaret  was  anxious  to  change  the  subject,  s( 


PASSING    EVENTS.  75 

she  remarked  that  it  was  ten  o'clock,  and  proposed 
that  they  should  go  to  bed.  To  this  all  agreed, 
Joe  remarking  that  "  her  and  Billy  used  to  sit  up  a 
good  deal  later  at  his  house,  when  Billy  came  there 
to  buy  wheelwright  stuff." 

Joe  carried  his  gun  up-stairs  and  told  them  to 
give  him  a  call  if  he  was  needed.  Billy  and  Mar- 
garet retired  and  lay  awake  some  time  talking  over 
the  unpleasant  news  they  had  received. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


A  FOOT-RACE. 

"  Night's  silent  reign  had  robbed  the  world  of  light ; 
To  lend,  in  lieu,  a  greater  benefit, 
Repose  and  sleep  :  when  every  mortal  breast 
Whom  care  or  grief  permitted,  took  their  rest." 

Billy  Brown  could  not  divest  himself  of  the 
feeling  that  something  unpleasant  would  happen 
before  long.  This  was  rather  an  impression,  for 
which  he  could  give  no  adequate  cause,  than  a  con- 
viction founded  on  reason.  He  knew  Sam  Doan 
and  regarded  him  as  a  reckless,  unprincipled  crea- 
ture ;  but  he  had  never  heard  of  his  being  engaged  in 
or  connected  with  the  business  of  kidnapping.  He 
knew  Margaret's  utter  abhorrence  of  the  man ;  but 
attributed  this  in  a  great  measure  to  prejudice 
formed  in  childhood,  and  thought  it,  perhaps,  un- 
just in  her  to  jump  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  would  assist  in  giving  information  or  in  captur- 
ing the  fugitives.  Still  he  thought  the  case,  as  he 
had  said,  was  in  bad  hands,  and  he  resolved  to  lose 
no  time  in  letting  Davy  know  about  it.  With  this 
resolve  in  his  mind  he  fell  asleep. 

He  awakened  with  the  conviction  that  something 
had  disturbed  his  rest.  He  listened,  and  a  scarcely 
perceptible  sound,  as  of  some  one  moving  about  in 
the  kitchen  below,  attracted  his  attention.  He 
raised  his  head,  and  reaching  over  the  side  of  the 
bed,  bent  his  ear  in  the  direction  from  whence  it 
came.     It  still  continued  at  intervals,  and  the  con- 

76 


A    FOOT-RACE,  77 

viction  gained  strength  in  his  mind  that  some  per- 
son was  there.  It  could  not  be  the  cat,  she  would 
not  be  moving  about  unless  in  search  of  rats,  and 
then  she  would  be  more  noiseless  in  her  movements ; 
it  must  be  some  person.     He  resolved  to  see. 

Slipping  quietly  out  of  bed,  he  softly  opened 
the  door  of  his  room  and  glided  down-stairs. 
There  was  but  a  thin  board  partition  between  him  and 
the  kitchen,  and  he  heard  movements  more  dis- 
tinctly, and  was  convinced  that  some  one  was  there. 
He  was  barefoot,  and  had  nothing  on  but  his  night- 
shirt, but  for  this  there  was  no  remedy.  Any  at- 
tempt to  return  and  dress  himself,  or  even  to  put 
on  his  shoes,  would  alarm  the  intruder  and  result 
in  his  escape.  He  determined  to  run  no  risk  of 
this  kind ;  his  object  being  to  bag  the  game  if  pos- 
sible. Gliding  silently  to  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
way, he  reached  out  his  hand  to  unlatch  the  door. 
A  little  excitement,  probably,  unsteadied  his  hand, 
or,  peradventure,  he  was  rather  hasty  in  his  anxiety 
to  get  a  glimpse  at  the  uninvited  occupant  of  the 
kitchen ;  at  any  rate  he  did  not  succeed  in  opening 
the  door  noiselessly  ;  the  latch  clicked,  and  there 
was  a  quick  movement  and  a  rush  across  the  floor. 
He  pushed  the  door  open  just  in  time  to  see  the 
form  of  a  man  getting  out  at  the  front  window. 
Billy  made  for  the  door,  but  he  had  to  draw  the 
long  wooden  bolt  with  which  it  was  fastened  and 
this  gave  the  fellow  a  start.  There  was  no  moon, 
but  the  night  was  clear  and  there  was  sufficient 
starlight  to  distinguish  objects  at  a  short  distance. 
He  fancied,  as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man 


78  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

clambering-  through  the  window,  that  he  carried  a 
bundle  of  things  in  his  arms  and  inferred  that  he 
had  stolen  them.  When  the  door  was  opened  the 
thief  was  outside  of  the  yard,  and  had  started  up 
the  road  in  the  direction  of  Carter's  mill.  Friend 
Brown  went  for  him.  He  was  now  fully  aroused, 
and  the  cause  was  one  that  demanded  his  best 
efforts.  On  they  went,  pursuer  and  pursued,  each 
one  straining  every  nerve  and  doing  his  level  best. 
The  wood  which  intervened  between  Brown's 
and  Carter's  mill  was  a  half  mile  or  more  long,  and 
traversed  by  a  narrow  road,  rough  and  stony. 
Two-thirds  of  this  distance  was  level,  and  then  a 
hill  succeeded,  at  the  top  of  which  the  wood  ter- 
minated. Into  this  wood  they  plunged,  the  Qua- 
ker in  his  night-shirt,  his  black  locks  streaming  in 
the  wind,  and  the  cold,  rough  ground  and  sharp 
stones,  with  which  the  road  abounded,  telling  fear- 
fully on  his  bare  feet.  The  thief,  who  was  a  pow- 
erful man  and  swift  of  foot,  strained  every  muscle] 
to  distance  his  pursuer.  But  the  load  of  plunder 
which  he  carried  began  to  tell  against  him.  Ere 
they  had  gone  a  hundred  yards  his  pursuer  had  re- 
covered half  the  distance  lost  at  the  start,  and  wasi 
gaining  rapidly.  Dismayed  at  this,  he  began  tc 
drop,  one  by  one,  the  articles  he  had  taken,  but  he 
had  carried  them  too  long ;  the  extra  weight  affectec 
his  wind,  and  the  Quaker  still  slowly  gained.  B3 
this  time  the  pursuer's  feet  were  growing  sore,  anc 
his  pluck  had  lost  its  first  keen  edge ;  but  still  h( 
cherished  not  the  slightest  intent  of  giving  up  the^ 
chase.     When  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  the 


A   FOOT-RACE.  79 

thief  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  the 
Quaker's  night-shirt,  like  a  wandering  spirit,  flut- 
tering in  the  darkness  close  behind  him.  His  re- 
newed fears  overcame  his  greed,  and  he  dropped  his 
entire  load  and  sped  forward  with  all  his  energies. 

Friend  Brown,  too,  confident  that  the  prey  was 
now  within  his  grasp,  called  up  every  latent  energy, 
and,  regardless  of  his  bleeding,  lacerated  feet,  and 
the  stones  that  bruised  and  cut  them  at  every  step, 
urged  himself  forward,  inspired  by  the  hope  of  a 
speedy  triumph.  Up  the  hill  these  two  toiled,  the 
pursuer  slowly  gaining.  Just  as  they  reached  the 
top  he  felt  secure  of  triumph.  He  was  close  be- 
hind the  thief,  and  felt  that  he  had  him  secure. 
Reaching  out  his  hand  and  placing  it  on  the  fel- 
low's shoulder,  he  yelled  (disregarding  the  lauguage 
of  Friends  entirely),  "Stop,  you  scoundrel !"  This 
was  his  great  mistake,  as  it  was  the  other's  safety. 
Instead  of  obeying,  he  made  a  flank  movement  by 
jumping  to  oneside,and  then,  darting  forward  tvith 
renewed  speed,  left  the  Quaker  far  behind. 

Friend  Brown  felt  that  the  race  was  over,  and 
that  he  must  retrace  his  steps.  This  was  no  easy 
job  ;  his  feet  were  bruised  and  bleeding,  and  numb 
with  cold.  The  excitement  was  over,  and  at  every 
step  he  felt  intense  pain.  Every  time  he  ventured 
forward  he  could  scarcely  repress  an  exclamation 
of  pain.  He  went  into  the  woods,  and  sitting  down 
on  some  moss  by  the  root  of  a  great  tree,  took  off 
his  shirt  and  wrapped  up  his  feet  in  it.  He  pressed 
it  against  them  and  warmed  and  soothed  them  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  then  started  on  his  honle- 


8o  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ward  journey.  He  kept  in  the  woods,  away  from 
the  road,  where  the  ground  was  soft  and  where  the 
fallen  leaves  afforded  some  protection  to  his  feet, 
and  slowly  made  his  way  to  the  house.  When  he 
reached  there  he  found  the  door  open  and  the  win- 
dow up  just  as  they  had  been  left.  Not  a  soul 
had  been  awakened  but  himself;  so  he  quietly 
closed  the  door,  let  down  the  window,  and  after 
warming  himself  by  the  coals  on  the  hearth  went 
back  to  bed  as  quietly  as  he  had  left  it. 

In  the  morning  he  called  to  the  apprentice,  who 
had  the  fire  made  before  daylight,  and  telling  what 
had  happened,  directed  him  when  it  was  light  to  go 
over  the  road  and  pick  up  such  articles  as  he  could 
find  scattered  along  it. 

He  returned  just  as  the  family  were  sitting  down 
to  breakfast,  with  an  armful  of  various  kinds  of 
things.  There  were  pairs  of  stockings,  balls  of 
woolen-yarn,  skeins  of  flax-yarn,  pairs  of  mittens, 
combs,  large  pieces  of  bread  and  meat,  and  many 
other  articles  that  the  thief  had  taken  but  dropped 
in  his  flight.  Margaret  declared,  after  a  careful  ex- 
amination, that  every  article  taken  had  been  recov- 
ered. He  had  not  kept  a  single  thing;  indeed,  he 
had  lost  his  hat,  a  white  wool  one,  which  the  ap- 
prentice also  found  and  brought  back  with  him. 

Joe  Simmons  laughed  immoderately  when  he 
heard  of  the  night's  adventure.  He  was  as  much 
pleased  with  the  fact  that  the  intruder  was  not  after 
the  fugitives,  as  he  was  amused  at  the  odd  and  ex- 
citing race  that  had  taken  place. 

When  Neddy  came  he  was  told  of  the  affair,  and 


I 


A    FOOT-RACE.  8 1 

shown  the  lost  hat.  "  Does  thee  know  whose  it 
is?"  asked  Billy. 

Neddy  looked  at  it  carefully  for  some  time  and 
then  said:  "  Ye — yes,  I  do,  ging-god,  it's  Ben's." 

"What  Ben?" 

"Be— Ben  Boodley's." 

Neddy  then  told  of  Ben  being  at  his  house  the 
night  before,  and  leaving  early  in  the  night.  All 
hands  agreed  that  Ben  was  the  thief  Indeed,  Billy, 
who  knew  him,  remembered  now  that  the  man  he 
had  pursued  very  much  resembled  Ben  in  general 
appearance. 

All  hands,  however,  agreed  that  inasmuch  as  the 
stolen  articles  had  all  been  recovered,  and  Ben 
badly  frightened,  that  it  was  just  as  well  to  let  the 
affair  drop.  He  would  leave  the  neighborhood 
and  not  likely  return  for  several  months ;  at  any 
rate  he  would  not  venture  into  Billy  Brown's  kitchen 
very  soon  again. 

Neddy  and  John  went  to  work  again  at  thrashing 
the  rye.  Billy  said  he  could  not  go  to  see  Davy 
till  Henry  returned,  which  would  be  about  noon  ; 
his  feet  were  too  sore  to  walk  and  his  only  horse 
was  away. 

Henry  came  back  a  little  before  noon.  He  had 
met  with  good  luck ;  everything  had  gone  well ; 
and  the  man  was  well  pleased  with  his  job.  He 
incidentally  mentioned,  in  speaking  of  his  journey, 
that  he  had  met  Sam  Doan  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Conowingo  bridge,  going  in  that  direction. 

Margaret's   cheek    paled.      Joe    Simmons    and 


82  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Billy  looked  at  each  other  meaningly  but  said 
nothing. 

After  a  pause  the  latter  remarked :  "  Henry,  feed 
the  horse  an'  rub  him  down  carefully.  I  think  I'll 
use  him  this  afternoon." 

Margaret  had  killed  a  chicken,  and  with  it  and 
the  squirrels  Joe  Simmons  had  brought,  made  a 
superb  pot-pie  for  dinner.  Joe  praised  it  highly,  at 
which  she  evinced  a  great  deal  of  quiet  satisfaction. 

After  dinner  Joe  left,  much  to  the  regret  of  the 
whole  family.  He  declared,  however,  he  would  be 
down  again  "  to-morrow  night."  At  present  he 
could  stay  no  longer. 

Billy  went  to  the  stable  after  dinner  and  brought 
out  the  horse.  He  looked  so  tired  and  weary  he 
could  not  think  of  riding  him.  He  wanted  to  see 
Davy,  and  his  feet  were  too  sore  to  walk.  What 
would  he  do  ?     He  resolved  to  send  Neddy. 

Calling  him  out  of  the  barn,  he  entrusted  him 
with  the  whole  story,  and  told  of  the  suspicions  he 
had  with  regard  to  an  attempt  being  made  for  the 
re-capture  of  the  fugitives.  He  closed  by  directing 
him  to  tell  Davy  all  about  it,  and  to  say  nothing  to 
any  one  else  unless  directed  by  him  to  do  so.  He 
was  to  come  back  that  night  and  report. 

John  and  the  boys  were  sent  out  to  continue  the 
cutting  of  the  winter's  fire-wood ;  the  barn-doors 
were  closed,  the  flails  hung  in  their  places,  and 
Friend  Brown  went  to  work,  as  usual,  in  the  shop. 

Mary  had  listened  to  the  account  of  the  night's 
adventure  with  a  good  deal  of  attention  and  no 
small  degree  of  alarm.     True,  it  was  evident  that 


A    FOOT-RACE.  83 

the  man  was  only  a  thief,  and  probably  knew  noth- 
ing of  fugitive  slaves  being  in  the  neighborhood. 
But  the  fact  remained  that  there  was  some  one 
lurking  about  the  premises  at  night,  and  this  was 
to  her  cause  for  alarm.  Every  incident  of  an  un- 
usual character  produced  anxiety  in  her  mind.  If 
the  dog  barked  she  feared  some  one  was  coming  to 
carry  away  her  child.  If  a  stranger  approached 
she  saw  in  him  a  kidnapper  to  bear  him  back  to 
slavery.  The  fact  that  the  house  had  been  visited 
and  entered  at  night  served  to  deepen  her  anxiety 
and  increase  her  unhappiness. 

Some  time  during  the  afternoon  Mary  was  as- 
sisting Margaret  in  hanging  out  some  clothes  they 
had  washed;  little  Charlie  was  sitting  on  the 
kitchen  floor,  looking  at  some  block  houses  that 
Frank  was  building  for  his  amusement;  Mary's 
watchful  eye  discovered  in  the  distance  some  half 
dozen  persons  approaching  by  the  road  which 
passed  in  front  of  the  barn.  Quick  as  thought 
she  leaped  from  the  chair  on  which  she  was  standing, 
bounded  into  the  kitchen,  and  snatching  up  Charlie, 
clasped  him  convulsively  to  her  breast,  and  rushed 
into  the  stairway  leading  into  the  cellar.  Here  she 
seated  herself  upon  the  topmost  step,  presenting 
such  a  picture  of  absolute,  perfect  terror  as  no  hu- 
man language  can  describe. 

It  was  an  embodiment  of  dumb,  speechless 
agony  that  defies  the  proper  use  of  words  to  convey 
any  adequate  conception  of  It  was  not  ordinary 
fear  or  fright — it  was  not  a  concern  for  personal 
safety — it  was    the  surging  waves  of  a  woman's 


84  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

soul,  stirred  to  their  profoundest  depths  by  a 
mother's  love,  and  a  mother's  fear  for  the  safety  of 
her  child. 

It  is  remarkable  how  deeply  some  incidents  are 
impressed  upon  the  mind  in  childhood.  It  is  then 
more  susceptible,  and  the  impressions  are  more  en- 
during than  in  after  life.  Affairs  that  are  readily 
forgotten  by  persons  grown  to  man's  estate,  imbed 
themselves  in  the  recollection  of  children  and  are 
fresh  and  green  in  them  through  life,  often  exercising 
most  important  influence  in  the  formation  of  their 
characters. 

Frank,  who  was  seated  on  the  floor,  looked  at 
the  woman  in  blank  amazement.  He  saw  that  she 
was  alarmed  and  he  felt  that  she  was  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  powerful  feeling,  but  he  understood 
nothing  more.  He  never,  however,  forgot  her  ex- 
pression of  speechless  agony,  and  in  after  years, 
when  he  had  grown  to  manhood,  could  call  it  up 
in  all  its  freshness,  and  to  his  mind's  eye  the  pic- 
ture was  as  perfect  as  when  he  first  saw  it.  Then] 
he  could  analyze  it.  Then  he  could  understand] 
that  the  Demon  of  Slavery,  crushing  beneath  its 
pitiless  tread  millions  of  human  souls,  was  simply 
burying  that  mother's  heart  under  its  remorseless 
footsteps. 

Many  a  time  in  after  life,  when  in  the  storm  ol 
pro-slavery  darkness  and  vengeance  that  swept^ 
over  the  land,  social  and  political  standing  and 
even  personal  safety  were  imperiled  by  opposition 
to  slavery,  and  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to  yield] 
to  what  seemed  to  be  the  decrees  of  fate,  the  recol-' 


A    FOOT-RACE.  85 

lection  of  that  slave  mother's  mutely  pleading,  un- 
spoken agony,  nerved  his  heart  to  renewed  and 
continued  effort  against  the  hell-born  institution. 

Margaret  passed  into  the  room  and  said  to  Mary, 
as  gently  as  she  could,  that  she  "guessed"  there 
was  no  danger;  but  the  woman  looked  up  to  her 
imploringly,  and  she  retired. 

Going  to  the  end  of  the  porch  next  to  the  shop, 
she  said  quietly  to  her  husband  that  he  had  better 
come  to  the  house  for  a  few  minutes.  He  did  so, 
and  remained  until  the  strangers  went  by.  They 
had  no  intention  of  disturbing  any  one;  but  had 
been  at  a  camp-meeting  some  two  or  three  miles 
south  and  chose  that  road  to  return. 

Mary  came  out  after  she  was  assured  they  had 
passed,  but  seemed  unusually  nervous  and  excited 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

During  the  afternoon  Peggy  Keys  and  Tommy 
passed  by  the  shop,  she  sitting  in  an  ox-cart  and 
Tommy  driving.  They  had  been  over  the  creek 
of  an  errand  and  were  on  their  way  home.  They 
stopped,  and  Peggy  went  into  the  shop  to  light  her 
pipe.  After  puffing  at  it  a  minute  or  two,  she  said : 
"Well,  Billy,  thee  wouldn't  trust  me  enough  to  tell 
me  what  Old  Josey  was  here  for  that  day,  but  I 
found  it  out.  I  know  it  wasn't  any  of  my  bus'ness, 
but  thee  needn't  been  afeard  of  me.  I  was  down 
at  the  mill  a  few  days  after  and  was  settin'  in  the 
mill-room  at  the  fire,  waitin'  for  a  grist,  and  I  he'rd 
Brister  Wilson,  the  miller,  and  grandfather  talking 
about  it  outside.  They  talked  it  all  over,  but  I 
never  let  on.     I  never  told  a  breath  of  it,  not  even 


86  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

to  Tommy.  I  never  tell  things,  Billy,"  she  con- 
tinued, raising  her  voice  and  looking  at  him  rather 
reproachfully,  **  that  I  know  ought  to  be  kep'. 
There's  never  a  livin'  creetur  will  get  a  whimper 
of  that  out  of  me.  I  hope  the  poor  things  'ill  get 
off  safe." 

Billy  felt  badly.  He  knew  full  well  that  she  had 
a  good  heart,  and  had  only  feared  that  she  would 
unintentionally  let  the  matter  out.  He  now  re- 
gretted he  had  not  made  a  confidant  of  her,  and 
impressed  her  with  the  importance  of  silence. 

Tommy,  who  had  grown  tired  of  waiting,  now 
came  to  the  door  and  asked  if  she  "was  'most 
ready  to  go?" 

"  Not  quite.     I'll  be  there  in  a  minnet  or  two. 
Mind  the  oxen.  Tommy.     Thee'd  better  hold  on. 
to  the  rope ;  they  might  run  away. 

Tommy  went  back,  seized  the  rope,  which  was 
tied  around  the  head  of  the  near  ox,  and  awaited 
her  coming. 

"  Where  's  Sam  Doan  live  now?"  inquired  Billy. 

"  He  lives  in  the  barrens,  about  three  miles  away 
from  us ;  but  he's  not  often  at  home.  He  follows 
coalin'.  I  guess  he's  over  in  Lancaster  county 
somewhere,"  was  the  reply. 

"They  say  he  knows  about  these  people  bein' 
here." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  He  finds  out  things  from 
some  of  the  wust  of  the  blacks.  He  runs  with  'em 
and  'sociates  with  'em,  and  gits  'em  to  drinkin'  and 
then  he'll  pick  out  of  'em  ennything  he  wants. 
He's  a  bad  man,  Billy,  and  he's  cunnin'  as  a  fox.' 


A   FOOT-RACE.  87 

Billy  fell  into  a  study,  and  Peggy  re-lighted  her 
pipe  and  started  out,  bidding  him  farewell,  with  the 
remark  that  they  would  "  begin  the  corn  in  a  day 
or  two." 

When  the  boys  and  John  returned  in  the  even- 
ing, Henry  related  that  on  their  way  out  they  had 
seen  a  man  approaching  them  some  distance  off, 
on  the  road  they  were  going.  As  soon  as  John 
discovered  him,  without  saying  a  word,  he  dropped 
his  ax,  and  leaping  the  fence  at  one  bound  struck 
off  into  the  forest  with  the  speed  of  a  deer.  Here, 
secreting  himself,  he  remained  until  the  stranger 
had  passed  out  of  sight,  when  he  came  slowly  back. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  occasion  for  alarm,  as 
the  man  was  a  neighbor  who  lived  a  mile  or  two 
away ;  but  so  thoroughly  were  these  fugitives  ter- 
rified, that  every  sight  and  sound  occasioned  re- 
newed alarm. 

Neddy  came  back  after  dark,  and  calling  Billy 
out,  told  him  that  Davy  had  been  fully  informed  of 
all  the  particulars.  Indeed,  he  knew  them  pretty 
well  before,  having  heard  of  Sam  Doan  going  over 
into  Maryland,  which  was  of  itself  suspicious.  He 
had  very  little  doubt  that  the  slave-hunters  would 
be  over  soon,  perhaps  to-morrow;  but  he  thought 
there  was  no  danger  of  them  coming  to-night.  It 
would  be  well,  however,  to  keep  a  lookout.  He 
had  men  on  the  watch  who  would  let  him  know  if 
any  suspicious  persons  crossed  Conowingo  bridge. 
He  thought  when  they  did  come  they  would  cross 
during  the  day  and  put  up  somewhere  near  the 
line,  starting  from  there  after  night  and  expecting 


88  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

to  get  back  with  the  fugitives  before  morning. 
This  was  his  judgment  of  their  movements,  founded 
on  considerable  experience,  and  a  knowledge  of  the 
locality  of  the  owners  of  John  and  Mary. 

In  the  meantime  he  proposed  a  place  of  conceal- 
ment for  them,  to  which  they  should  be  removed, 
when  it  was  ascertained  that  their  owners  were  in 
search  of  them.  Until  that  time  it  was  best  they 
should  remain  where  they  were. 

Neddy  was  told  by  Davy  to  give  all  the  informa- 
tion he  had   obtained  to  Grandfather   Carter  and] 
Bristow  Wilson,  whose   co-operation  in  what  was] 
to  follow  must  be  secured.     This   he  had  alread; 
done,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  wait] 
until  news  came  from  Davy.     The  moment  he  be- 
lieved the  slave-hunters  were  within  reach  he  would] 
send  word,  with  all   the  particulars  and   directions 
how  to  act. 

This   was  his  statement,  made   in  bad  English, 
with  a  good   deal  of  stammering,  and  frequent  in- 
terpolations of  **ging-god"  and  other  words  of  that! 
character;  but  it  possessed  clearness  and  force  and] 
was,  withal,  as  the  listener  well  knew,  perfectly  re- 
liable. 

Neddy  was  then  invited  in  to  supper,  which  he] 
ate  in  silence  and  started  for  his  home. 

As  the  name  of  Bristow  Wilson  has  been  men- 
tioned once  or  twice  in  this  chapter,  and  as  h( 
plays  an  important  part  in  the  incidents  that  an 
about  to  occur,  we  will  introduce  him  more  fuUyJ 
to  our  readers. 

Bristow  Wilson,   or  as   he   was    called    in   the 


A   FOOT-RACE.  89 

neighborhood,  "  Brister,"  was  the  miller  at  Carter's 
mill.     He  was  to  all  appearance  a  full-blooded  Af- 
rican, black  as  the  shades  of  night,  with  thick  lips, 
broad,  fiat  nose,  and  short,  kinky  hair.     He  was  a 
large,  powerful  man,  broad-shouldered  and  square- 
ly built,  and  looked  the  very  impersonation  of  vig- 
orous health  and  physical  enjoyment.     His  head 
was  large,  his  forehead  broad  and  high,  the  coronal 
region  well-developed,  while  his  clear,  honest  eye 
at  once  attracted  attention  and  secured  confidence. 
He  had  been  raised  by  Grandfather  Carter   from  a 
child,  and  treated  by  him  with  the  utmost  kindness 
and    consideration.       Indeed,    everybody    treated 
"  Brister,''  as  he  was  called,  well.     It  seemed   im- 
possible to   do  otherwise.     At  that  time,  when  a 
bitter  prejudice  against  color  was  almost  universal, 
he  was  treated  by  every  resident  in  the   neighbor- 
hood, man  and  woman,  as  though  he  were  a  full- 
blooded    Caucasian.      Nobody     ever    seemed    to 
think  of  his  color.     It  has  often  been  a  puzzle  to 
the  writer  of  this  how  it  was,  but  such  is  the  un- 
deniable fact.     He  was  extremely  social  and  kind- 
hearted  ;     but    he    never   transgressed    the    strict 
bounds  of  propriety.     He  was  scrupulously  honest, 
and  his  integrity  was  never  known   to   have  been 
called  in  question.     The  most  aristocratic   people 
in  that  section  treated  him  with  careful  considera- 
tion.    Ineeed,  he  seemed  to  have  that  quiet,  unaf- 
fected dignity  that  always  compels  respect.     Bris- 
tow  possessed  such  an  education  as  was   common 
with  the  well-to-do-people  of  that  locality,  and  was 
quite  intelligent.      As  a  matter  of  course  he  sym- 


90 


JOHN   AND    MARY. 


pathized  with  those  of  his  race  who  were  in  slavery, 
and  being  a  man  of  discretion  and  courage,  was  a 
very  proper  confidant  of  those  who  were  planning 
for  the  safety  of  the  fugitives  in  the  impending 
struggle. 


i 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE. 

"  Life  and  thought  have  gone  away- 
Side  by  side. 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  ; 
Careless  tenants  they  !" 

The  Octoraro,  in  its  passage  from  Brown's  ford 
to  Carter's,  described  the  arc  of  a  circle,  while 
the  public  road  connecting  the  two  places  was 
nearly  in  a  straight  line.  By  the  stream  the  dis- 
tance between  the  two  points  was  more  than  a  mile  ; 
but  by  the  highway  it  was  much  less. 

Along  the  southern  bank  of  the  creek  was  a 
continuous  forest,  which  we  have  already  described, 
reaching  four-fifths  of  the  distance.  The  most  of 
this,  for  a  considerable  distance  from  the  stream, 
was  covered  with  an  undergrowth,  mainly  of  laurel, 
so  thick  as  to  be  almost  impenetrable  except  where 
traversed  by  footpaths,  of  which  there  were  a  few, 
known  only  to  those  who  frequented  the  banks  of 
the  stream  for  hunting  and  fishing  purposes. 

On  the  northern  bank,  for  a  considerable  dis- 
tance below  the  ford  at  Brown's,  the  land  was 
cleared  and  under  cultivation.  Then  followed  a 
forest-covered  hill,  which  rose  abruptly  from  the 
stream,  and  along  whose  steep  and  rugged  side 
the  traveler  could  only  clamber  by  following  a  nar- 
row and  tortuous  path,  clinging  the  while  to  such 
bushes  and  trees  as  came  within  his  reach.  After 
this  came  a  space  of  cleared  land,  entirely  inclosed 
91 


92  JOHN   AND   MARY. 

by  a  forest,  and  then  succeeded  another  wood,  the 
counterpart  of  that  we  have  been  describing. 

The  cleared  spot  of  land,  to  which  we  have  re- 
ferred, ran  back  a  short  distance  from  the  creek, 
and  was  bounded  in  that  direction  by  the  wood. 

It  was  thus  inclosed  by  woodland  on  three  sides, 
while  in  its  front  ran  the  Octorara,  so  deep  as  not 
to  be  fordable  at  this  point,  in  consequence  of  the 
water  being  backed  up  by  the  dam,  not  more  than 
half  a  mile  below. 

The  spot  embraced  some  four  or  five  acres,  and 
was  much  less  hilly  than  the  land  either  above  or 
below  it.  Across  it,  from  north  to  south,  dividing 
it  in  two  almost  equal  parts,  ran  a  little  valley  or 
"  hollow,"  through  which  flowed  a  small  rivulet  of 
pure  water,  which  reached  the  level  of  the  creek 
a  few  yards  from  its  banks  by  means  of  a  "tumble  " 
or  small  waterfall,  where  its  clear,  bright  waters 
were  poured  into  an  inlet  or  cove  several  feet  deep. 
This  was  a  favorite  fishing  ground  for  those  who 
frequented  the  banks  of  the  stream  for  that  pur- 
pose. 

Along  the  creek,  in  front  of  the  clearing  to 
which  we  have  referred,  was  a  wilderness  of  bushes 
and  briars  several  feet  deep  ;  these  reached  close  to 
the  edge  of  the  little  inlet  we  have  been  describing,, 
on  either  side,  shutting  it  out  of  view  from  almost 
every  point  on  both  sides  of  the  stream.  ^ 

On  the  western  slope  of  this  clearing,  near  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  and  fronting  the  Octorara,  stood 
an  old,  deserted  house.  It  was  a  small  log  build- 
ing, and  had  a  neglected,  dilapidated  appearance. 


THE   DESERTED    HOUSE.  93 

Years  before  it  had  been  inhabited  by  a  family  of 
negroes,  but  of  late  had  been  entirely  unoccupied. 

The  place  had  that  forlorn  and  woe-begone  look 
that  ever  belongs  to  a  deserted  habitation.  The 
spot  that  had  once  been  used  as  a  garden  was  over- 
grown with  weeds,  which  choked  and  smothered 
down  the  few  bright  flowers  that  struggled  up- 
ward for  a  brief  existence.  Rank  weeds  grew  up 
at  the  sides  of  the  house,  whose  tops  met  the  ends 
of  the  long  slabs  of  which  the  roof  was  made, 
forming  a  harbor  for  snakes  and  other  reptiles. 
Around  the  old  stone  chimney,  and  on  the  ends  of 
the  logs  which  stood  out  at  the  corners,  were  di- 
lapidated birds'  nests,  that  having  served  their  pur- 
pose were  abandoned.  The  door,  which  was  in 
the  gable-end  opposite  the  chimney,  stood  ajar, 
having  been  left  so  by  some  wandering  fishermen 
or  hunters  whom  curiosity  had  prompted  to  open 
it  and  look  inside.  The  wind  had  partly  loosened 
some  of  the  slabs  of  which  the  roof  was  made,  and 
they  hung,  listlessly,  awaiting  another  gale  to  hurl 
them  to  the  ground. 

Inside,  the  floor  was  reasonably  good,  while  the 
broad  fire-place  looked  as  though  waiting  hungrily 
for  the  long-delayed  supply  of  wood  ;  three  or  four 
rude  benches,  probably  left  there  by  the  former 
occupants,  made  up  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

It  was  as  lonely  a  spot  as  could  well  be  imag- 
ined. No  road,  public  or  private,  came  within 
reach  of  it.  It  was  surrounded  on  three  sides  by 
deep  forests,  and  was  only  approachable  by  narrow, 
rugged  and   almost  inaccessible  paths.      In   front 


94  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

flowed  the  Octorara,  not  fordable  at  that  place, 
nor  for  a  long  distance,  up  or  down.  On  the  op- 
posite bank  was  the  deep,  dark  wood  already  des- 
cribed; and  there  the  creek  could  only  be  ap- 
proached on  foot  and  by  those  who  were  familiar 
with  the  narrow  and  intricate  paths.  Not  a  human 
dwelling  was  in  sight,  not  a  cultivated  field,  not  a 
single  mark  of  civilization.  It  was  lonely,  and 
wild,  and  desolate  ;  indeed,  only  those  quite  famil- 
iar with  the  neighborhood  knew  of  its  existence 
at  all. 

It  was  this  place  that  Davy  McCann,  whose  mind 
was  always  on  the  alert,  and  who  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  every  foot  of  ground  in  that  sec- 
tion of  country,  had  decided  upon  as  a  temporary 
hiding-place  for  the  fugitives,  as  soon  as  it  became 
certain  that  the  slave-hunters  were  in  pursuit  of 
them. 

He  rightly  conjectured  that  when  they  received 
information  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  runaways, 
they  would  not  attempt  to  retake  them  in  day-time, 
but  would  approach  the  place  at  night,  both  because 
it  would  be  easier  then  to  capture  them,  and 
there  would  be  less  danger  of  a  rescue  while  they 
were  being  conveyed  away. 

Neither  did  he  think  it  good  policy  to  have  them 
started  farther  north  at  present.  Pursuit  would  in- 
evitably be  made,  which  might  be  successful.  It 
was  much  better  that  they  should  be  secreted  near 
by,  and  the  pursuers,  who  would  naturally  suppose 
they  had  left  the  neighborhood,  thus  thrown  off 
their  guard. 


i 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE.  95 

He  therefore  directed  Neddy  to  convey  them  to 
this  spot  when  intelHgence  should  be  forwarded  to 
him  that  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  move ;  but 
that  under  no  circumstances  should  they  be  re- 
moved in  day-time;  the  trip  should  be  made  at 
night.  This,  he  said,  could  be  readily  done,  as 
there  was  not  the  slightest  danger  that  the  slave- 
catchers  would  make  their  appearance  at  Brown's 
until  some  time  after  nightfall.  These  directions 
Neddy  had  conveyed  to  Billy  Brown  as  well  as 
Grandfather  Carter  and  Bristow  Wilson. 

So  well  convinced  was  Neddy  that  the  next 
night  would  bring  with  it  important  events,  that  he 
determined  to  begin  preparations  at  once.  On  his 
way  home  he  stopped  to  see  Bristow  Wilson,  at  the 
mill,  and  the  two  went  into  the  little  room  together 
and  sat  down  on  the  low  bench  by  the  fire,  where 
the  subject  was  carefully  talked  over. 

A  boat  or  scow  was  kept  on  the  dam  for  carry- 
ing stones  and  earth  to  repair  the  breast ;  it  was 
also  used  for  fishing  purposes.  This,  it  was  agreed, 
should  be  moved  up  the  stream  to  a  point  opposite 
the  deserted  house,  on  the  evening  of  the  next 
day,  to  be  in  readiness  for  conveying  the  fugitives 
across.  Neddy,  in  the  meantime,  who  was  familiar 
with  the  way,  would  conduct  them,  as  soon  as  it 
was  dark,  through  the  wood  on  the  southern  bank 
to  where  the  boat  was  in  readiness  and  have  them 
ferried  over. 

So  far  all  seemed  fair  sailing.  It  was  deemed 
important,  however,  that  some  preparation  should 
be  made   at  the   house  for  their  reception.     The 


96  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

nights  were  not  by  any  means  warm,  and  with  only 
the  bare  floor  and  two  or  three  benches  it  was  a 
bad  place  for  a  woman  and  child  to  remain  all 
night;  and  it  was  quite  possible  they  would  be 
compelled  to  stay  there  even  longer. 

After  some  consultation  it  was  resolved  that  the 
place  should  be  visited  that  night, and  the  necessary 
preparations  made.  This  could  be  done  more 
readily  by  going  up  in  the  boat  than  by  any  other 
method;  and  that  the  two  men  resolved  to  do. 

Bristow,  having  finished  the  grist  he  was  grind- 
ing, shut  down  the  gate  and  proceeded  to  close  up 
the  mill,  first  providing  himself  with  a  few  matches 
and  a  tallow  candle  to  be  used  when  they  reached 
their  destination. 

Just  as   they  stepped   outside   and  were  closing 
the  door,  a  horse  came  round  the   corner  of  the 
building  with  a  bag  across   his  back  and  a  well-  j 
grown  negro  perched  on  top  of  it.  ^ 

"Hilloa!"  said  Bristow,  "  ha  !  ha!  a  purty  time 
o'  night  to  be  coming  to  mill ;  what  ye  got  there, 
Jem?" 

"  Got  sum  weat;  the'r  putty  near  out  o'  flour  an* 
I've  got  to  go  'way  with  the  team  to-morrer;  had 
to  cum."  ^ 

"All  right,  give  me  a  lift  and  we'll  put  her  in."  m 

This  man  was  Jem  Body,  an  active  young  colored 
man,  who  lived  with  a  farmer  about  a  mile  north 
of  the  deserted  house.  He  was  a  good  hand  and 
quite  trusty,  but  very  fond  of  dancing,  and  at- 
tended all  the  parties  at  the  houses  of  colored 
people  for  miles  around. 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE. 


97 


"Neddy,"  said  Bristow,  who  did  not  relish  the 
idea  of  going  on  the  proposed  journey  if  it  could 
be  avoided,  "here's  the  very  man  we  want.  Jem 
can  go  over  to  the  old  house  and  fix  things  to- 
night ;  it's  not  far  for  him  when  he  gets  home." 

"What  d'  ye  want  at  the  ole  house;  be  dern'd  if 
I  can  go  to-night,"  said  Jem. 

The  matter  was  then  explained  to  Jem ;  and  the 
necessity  of  having  something  arranged  to  make 
it  more  comfortable  for  the  woman  and  child  was 
urged. 

"  I  can't  go,  I  tell  ye  I  can't.  There's  a  party  I 
promist  to  go  to,  an'  I  must  go;  won't  it  do  to- 
morrer  nite?" 

"  No,"  said  Bristow,  "  it  had  better  be  done  now. 
We'd  better  have  all  these  things  done  now,  so  we 
can  be  on  the  lookout  then." 

"  Sorry  I  can't  'comodate  ye,  but  I  promist  to 
go,  and  I  mus  go." 

Here  they  plainly  saw  there  was  no  use  in  any 
further  persuasion,  and  admonishing  Jem  that  he 
must  keep  his  mouth  shut  on  the  subject,  he  was 
allowed  to  depart. 

When  he  had  gone  Neddy  seemed  much  ex- 
cited :  "  Gi — ging-god,"  said  he,  "  I — I  wish  we 
hadn't  sed  nothin'  to  'im." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Bristow,  "he'll  not  say  a 
word.  "  He's  a  purty  quiet,  safe  kind  of  a  dar- 
key." 

"  Ye — yes,  I  know  he   is  ;    but  ging-god,  he's  a 
goin'  after  that  gal  at  Porter's,  an'  he'll  mebby  tell 
5 


98  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

her,  an'  she'll  think  it's  too  big  a  thing  to  keep,  an' 
she'll  tell  somebody  else." 
*'0,  I  guess  not;    now  we'd  better  be  off." 
So  the  two  started;  going  first  to  the  barn,  they 
rolled  together  two  bundles  of  straw  and  tied  them 
up  with  some  pieces  of  rope,  and  then  carried  them 
across  to  the  dam  where  the  boat  was  fastened  to  a 
tree  by  a  small  chain.     They  placed  the  bundles 
of  straw  in  the  boat,  unfastened  it,  and  by  the  aid 
of  a   pole   commenced    moving   up  stream.     The 
distance  was  not  much  over  half  a  mile,  and  they 
were  not  long  in   reaching  the  place.     Here  they 
moored  the  boat  in  the  little  cove  already  spoken 
of,  and  throwing  the  straw  out  on  the  bank,  jumped 
out  themselves,  and  fastening  the  chain  to  a  smal 
maple  that  grew  near,  clambered  up  the  bank,  an 
with  the  straw  on  their  shoulders  proceeded  toward 
the  deserted  house. 

Entering  it,  they  laid  their  loads  on  the  floor  and 
proceeded  to  strike  a  light.  Everything  looked 
gloomy  and  desolate,  but  they  had  no  time  to  con- 
template it.  Neddy  took  out  his  pocket-knife,  and 
running  the  small  blade  through  the  candle,  stuck 
it  into  the  side  of  one  of  the  benches,  so  that  it  an- 
swered in  place  of  a  candlestick.  They  then  went 
out  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  and  gathered  up  a 
quantity  of  dead  wood,  breaking  it  in  convenient 
lengths,  and  carried  it  into  the  house.  After  they 
had  gathered  what  they  thought  was  sufficient, 
they  brought  in  two  good-sized  stones  and  laid 
them  on  the  hearth  to  serve  in  lieu  of  andirons. 
They  then  placed  the  bundles  of  straw,  which  were 


I 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE.  99 

intended  to  serve  for  a  bed  for  the  fugitives,  in  one 
corner  of  the  room,  and  carefully  putting  out  the 
candle,  closed  the  door  and  started  for  the  boat. 

Their  passage  back  was  without  incident,  but 
when  they  were  on  shore  again  Bristow  said : 

"Neddy,  it's  late,  and  the  night's  cool,  would  a 
drop  of  the  critter  hurt  us?" 

"  N — no  't  would'nt,"  said  Neddy,  "  ef  we  had 
it,"  he  added,  doubtfully. 

"  I  have  a  little  at  the  house,  let's  go  and  try 
it." 

So  the  two  proceeded  to  the  little  log  house  in 
which  Bristow  lived,  and  a  bottle  was  produced, 
out  of  which  the  two  drank,  Bristow  tasted  it 
carefully,  but  Neddy  took  a  long  and  delicious 
swallow,  apparently  prolonging  the  effort  for  the 
purpose  of  affording  himself  additional  gratifica- 
tion : 

**  That's  de  thing,  ging-god,  it  goes  jest  to  de 
place." 

Bristow  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  it  was  af- 
ter eleven  o'clock.  Neddy  started  home  and  he  re- 
tired to  bed. 

Early  the  next  morning  Davy  McCann  arrived 
with  information  that  the  owners  of  John  and  Mary 
had  crossed  Conowingo  bridge  the  night  before, 
and  put  up  at  the  tavern  near  the  Maryland  line. 
He  was  fully  informed  of  their  movements  and  in- 
tentions by  a  spy  who  had  been  lounging  about 
there  for  several  days,  and  whom  no  one  suspected. 
The  owners  were  in  a  light  two-horse  wagon  and 
were  accompanied  by  two  men  on  horseback,  mak- 


lOO  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ing  four  in  all.  They  would  remain  there  until 
dark  in  order  to  excite  no  suspicion,  and  then 
start  for  Brown's,  where  they  had  been  informed' 
the  fugitives  were.  After  taking  possession  oi 
them  they  would  return  to  Maryland  that  night. 

Davy  was  informed,  by  Bristow,  of  the  arrange- 
ments that  had  been  made,  and  fully  approved 
them.  He  advised  that  the  fugitives  should  leave 
Brown's  as  soon  as  it  was  dark  that  evening,  but 
not  before ;  and  that  a  sharp  lookout  should  be 
kept  on  the  slave-hunters,  both  as  they  approached 
and  as  they  left  the  neighborhood. 

Neddy  came  along  on  his  way  to  Brown's,  and 
was  told  what  news  Davy  had  brought.  He  was 
not  surprised,  indeed  he  had  anticipated  it,  and  was 
much  gratified  that  preparations  had  been  made 
that  would,  in  all  probability,  prevent  John  and 
Mary  from  being  captured. 

It  was  a  day  of  great  uneasiness  at  Brown's.  A 
sense  of  impending  evil  seemed  to  oppress  all  the 
members  of  the  family.  Those  who  understood 
the  matter  felt  convinced  that  the  slave-hunters 
would  be  foiled,  but  would  not  divest  themselves 
of  a  vague,  undefined  uneasiness  for  which  no  ade- 
quate reason  could  be  given.  The  fugitives  were 
told  that  they  would  have  to  move  that  night,  and 
that  their  owners  were  upon  their  track.  John  re- 
ceived the  information  with  the  same  stolid  look 
he  had  always  shown  ;  but  Mary  exhibited  a  deeper 
earnestness  in  her  countenance,  and  kept  her  eye 
more  intensely  fixed  upon  Charley,  who  seemed  to 
be  the  very  center  of  her  being. 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE.  lOI 

Though  the  night  had  been  cool  the  day  was 
bright  and  pleasant.  Early  in  the  forenoon  Frank 
came  running  into  the  house,  singing  :  '*  Grand — 
father  Car — ter's  a  com — min',  with  a  bun — die 
un — der  his  a — r-^m,"  and  sure  enough  he  ap- 
peared in  a  few  minutes,  trudging  along  with  a 
large  roll  under  his  arm. 

Entering  the  kitchen  and  taking  his  accustomed 
seat,  he  asked  for  Ma,ry. 

"  She's  up-stairs,"  said  Margaret. 

"  Call  her  down,"  was  the  reply,  **  I  want  to  see 
her." 

So  Mary  was  called,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  with 
Charley  in  her  arms,  made  her  appearance. 

"  Here's  something  for' thee,  when  thee  goes  out 
to-night,"  said  the  kind-hearted,  but  somewhat 
stern  old  man,  as  he  unrolled  the  package  and  ex- 
hibited a  thick,  warm  and  most  substantial  shawl, 
such  as  was  then  worn  by  Friends,  "  try  it  on  and 
she  how  it  suits  thee." 

Mary  hesitated,  but  Margaret  picked  it  up  and 
unfolded  it.  As  she  did  so  a  small  package  wrap- 
ped up  in  paper  fell  out.  She  then  threw  it  around 
Mary's  shoulders. 

"  What  a  nice  shawl.  I  think  I've  seen  it  before, 
Grandfather." 

"  Yes,  thee  has.  It  belonged  to  one  who'll  never 
wear  it  again.  But  dead  people,"  continued  the 
old  man,  though  his  voice  trembled  a  little,  "don't 
wear  shawls.  It  is  the  livin'  we  must  take  care  of" 
Mary  was  silent.  Presently  grandfather  picked  up 
the  package  that  had  fallen,  and  unwrapping  it  took 


I02  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

out  a  pair  of  strong,  well-made  little  shoes.  Hold- 
ing them  out  he  said :  **  These  are  for  the  little 
boy;  put  them  on  him,  I  want  to  see  how  they 
fit." 

Charley  was  seated  on  a  chair,  and  the  pair  of 
old  socks  he  had  been  wearing  were  taken  off  and  the 
shoes  put  on  in  their  places.  They  were  quite 
large,  but  this  grandfather  pronounced  a  "  good 
fault." 

The  boy  was  intensely  gratified,  which  he  mani- 
fested by  a  continued  broad  grin.  His  mother  felt 
very  grateful,  and  wanted  to  express  her  thanks, 
but  had  not  the  power  to  utter  them.  While  she 
was  lacing  them  up,  two  large,  bright  tears  rolled 
down  her  cheeks  and  fell  on  the  little  feet;  the 
only  manifestation  of  gratitude  she  had  the  power 
to  make. 

Grandfather  Carter  noticed  this  and  turned  away 
his  face;  placing  both  hands  on  the  top  of  his  cane 
and  resting  his  chin  against  them,  he  gazed  long 
and  earnestly  into  the  kitchen  fire.  He  was  expe- 
riencing that  purest  of  all  joys,  the  consciousness 
of  having  done  a  good  act  that  was  gratefully  ap- 
preciated. The  gratitude  of  that  poor  slave-mother 
was  more  precious  to  him  than  all  the  wealth  or 
fame  that  a  monarch  could  have  laid  at  his  feet.  It 
was  a  bliss  that  no  earthly  power  could  deprive  him 
of  Soon  rising,  he  bade  farewell  and  returned 
home. 

.  In  the  evening  supper  was  had  before  the  usual 
time,  but  Mary  could  not  eat ;  John,  however,  ate 
as  usual,  while  Neddy  manifested  considerable  un- 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE.'  IO3 

easiness.  He  felt  that  the  time  for  action  had  ar- 
rived. When  supper  was  over,  Mary  had  the  shawl 
thrown  around  her,  while  Charley  was  wrapped  in 
a  little  cloak  that  had  once  been  Frank's.  This, 
with  his  new  shoes,  made  him  look  quite  comfort- 
able. 

It  was  arranged  that  Henry  should  go  to  the 
dam  and  bring  the  boat  up  to  the  point  opposite 
the  deserted  house,  while  Neddy  and  the  appren- 
tice should  accompany  the  fugitives  through  the 
woods  and  meet  him  at  that  place. 

Henry  accordingly  started  off  as  soon  as  supper 
was  over,  while  the  rest  waited  for  night's  curtain 
to  throw  its  protecting  shield  around  them  before 
venturing  out.  As  soon,  however,  as  it  was  quite 
dark  they  started,  with  kind  farewells  and  many  a 
silent  prayer  that  no  harm  should  overtake  them. 

The  night  was  bright  and  beautiful.  The  stars 
looked  down  to  earth  as  kindly  as  though  no  ac- 
cursed system  of  wrong  crushed  millions  beneath 
its  iron  heel.  The  new  moon  showed  a  narrow 
crescent  of  light,  that  just  skirted  the  western  hill 
and  struggled  through  the  foliage  of  the  deep 
forest. 

They  pursued  the  road  over  which  Billy  Brown 
had  chased  the  frightened  burglar  a  few  nights  be- 
fore, until  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  where 
he  had  given  up  the  chase.  Then,  turning  to 
the  right,  they  passed  along  the  edge  of  a  wood 
for  a  short  distance,  and  plunged  into  the  forest. 
Neddy,  who  knew  the  path  well,  took  the  lead, 
followed  by   Mary,  who  all  the  time  carried  her 


I04  '  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

boy,  not  permitting  any  one  to  take  him  from  her. 
John  walked  next  to  her,  and  the  apprentice  brought 
up  the  rear. 

Down  through  the  dark  and  almost  pathless 
forest,  over  rocks  and  stones,  through  bushes  seem- 
ingly impenetrable,  they  went,  until  at  last  they 
emerged  from  the  thick  undergrowth  and  could  see 
the  bright  waters  of  the  Octorara  gleaming  through 
the  interstices  of  the  forest. 

Neddy  was  a  superb  guide.  He  struck  the  ex- 
act spot  intended,  and  found  Henry  with  the  boat 
awaiting  them. 

"Now,  boys,"  said  he,  "  dey  '11  mebby  want  you 
at  de  house.  We  's  all  safe  enuff.  You  better  git 
back  as  soon  as  ye  kin." 

Henry  and  the  apprentice  started  at  once,  and 
knowing  the  way  very  well,  were  soon  far  on  their  | 
way  home. 

Neddy  took  hold  of  the  chain  and  drew  the  boat 
alongside  of  a  fallen  tree  at  the  water's  edge ;  he 
then  gave  John  the  end,  and  getting  in,  told  Mary 
to  hand  the  boy  to  him.  She  reluctantly  consented. 
He  then  with  one  hand  assisted  her  into  the  boat, 
seated  her  on  a  board  which  lay  across  the  bottom, 
and  taking  up  the  pole,  directed  John  to  step  on 
board.  He  then  pushed  the  boat  across  the  stream 
and  entered  the  little  inlet  where  they  had  been  the 
previous  night. 

"Here  we  is,"  said  Neddy,  "as  safe  as  a  rat  in 
his  hole.  Now,  I'll  jes  go  up  to  de  hous  and  see 
't  all 's  right  afore  you  go  up." 

So  he  clambered  up  the  bank,  fastened  the  boat- 


J 


THE    DESERTED    HOUSE.  I05 

chain  to  the  same  little  tree  where  it  had  been  the 
previous  night,  and  started  toward  the  deserted 
house,  leaving  the  fugitives  in  the  boat. 

He  walked  slowly  toward  the  house.  Every- 
thing seemed  silent  and  dreary.  The  moon  was 
just  visible  as  it  peeped  faintly  over  the  hill  to  the 
west.  The  great  trees  of  the  forest,  with  their  out- 
stretched arms,  looked  as  though  they  stood  listen- 
ing and  waiting  for  something  from  the  great  Un- 
known. The  plaintive  voice  of  the  katydids  served 
only  to  deepen  the  awful  and  majestic  silence.  He 
felt  strangely  uneasy,  and  oppressed  with  some  un- 
known and  undefinable  dread,  but  still  moved  for- 
ward. Reaching  the  door  of  the  house  he  pushed 
it  open,  and  stepping  inside,  took  some  matches 
from  his  pocket  for  the  purpose  of  lighting  the 
candle  left  there  on  the  previous  night. 

Just  at  this  moment  there  arose  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  boat  a  shriek  so  wild,  so  despairing,  so 
expressive  of  the  extremest  mortal  agony,  that  it 
froze  his  very  blood  and  transfixed  him,  horror- 
stricken,  on  the  spot  where  he  was  standing. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE    HUNTERS    AND    THEIR    PREY. 

"  Like  a  lion  growling  low — 

Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow — 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe." 

The  tavern,  already  referred  to,  at  which  the 
slave-hunters  had  put  up,  was  but  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  Maryland  line.  In  their  approach 
to  Brown's  they  would,  in  all  probability,  cross  the 
Octorara  at  Carter's,  and  proceed  thence  by  the  way 
with  which  our  readers  are  already  familiar. 

To  reach  Carter's  they  had  their  choice  of  two 
different  routes,  both  of  which,  however,  converged 
into  one  at  Buckingham  school-house,  a  point  about 
half  a  mile  west  of  the  former  place,  and  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  creek.  From  the  school-house 
the  approach  to  Carter's  was  through  a  wood,  which 
on  the  one  side  reached  down  to  the  dam,  some 
distance  below  the  deserted  house.  From  this  road 
to  the  dam,  through  the  wood,  the  distance  was  not 
over  two  hundred  yards,  while  the  deserted  house 
was  distant  more  than  half  a  mile. 

Davy  McCann,  who  was  well  and  accurately  in- 
formed in  relation  to  their  intended  movements,  de- 
termined to  watch  them  closely.  He  believed  that 
for  the  present  they  were  completely  foiled  by  the 
plan  which  had  been  put  into  execution.  Long 
experience,  however,  had  taught  him  to  calculate 
for  every  contingency,  and  to  watch  closely  each 

io6 


THE    HUNTERS   AND   THEIR   PREY.  IO7 

turn  of  events,  realizing  in  the  meantime  that  eter- 
nal vigilance  was  the  price  of  liberty.  Accordingly, 
as  evening  approached,  he  determined  to  take  his 
stand  at  Buckingham  school-house  and  await  the 
coming  of  'the  slave-hunters  who,  he  felt  sure, 
would  pass  there  soon  after  dark. 

So,  crossing  over  wood  and  field,  he  reached  the 
spot  just  as  the  shades  of  night  were  settling  down, 
and  taking  his  seat  in  a  clump  of  bushes  near  the 
road-side,  awaited  their  coming. 

Davy  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  He  was  just 
comfortably  seated  and  had  provided  himself  with 
a  huge  quid  of  tobacco,  which  he  was  masticating 
with  his  us  ual  energy,  when  a  low  rumbling  sound 
admonished  him  that  a  vehicle  was  approaching . 
It  was  somewhat  earlier  than  he  had  expected  the 
slave-hunters,  but  peering  through  the  darkness  he 
saw  a  co\'ercd  wagon  with  two  horses  attached, 
preceded  by  two  men  on  horseback,  approaching. 
There  could  be  no  mistake  about  their  identity; 
they  answered  the  exact  description  he  had  receive  I 
of  the  party  in  search  of  John  and  Mary,  and  be- 
sides, this  road  was  but  little  traveled,  and  the  party 
evidently  were  strangers.  He  made  no  doubt  that 
they  were  going  direct  to  Brown's,  and  as  soon  as 
they  had  passed  his  place  of  concealment,  started 
quietly  and  cautiously  through  the  wood,  keeping 
them  in  sight. 

What  was  his  utter  astonishment  to  see  the  whole 
party,  shortly  after  they  had  passed  the  school- 
house,  leave  the  public  road  and  turn  into  the  wood 
in  the  direction  of  Carter's  dam. 


Io8  JOHN   AND   MARY. 

At  first  he  conjectured  they  did  this  for  the  pur- 
pose of  conceaHng  themselves   until  later  in  the  | 
evening,  not  desiring  to  approach  Brown's  until  the 
family  had  gone  to  bed. 

This  theory,  however,  soon  vanished,  for,  ap- 
proaching as  near  as  possible  without  danger  of 
detection,  he  saw  the  wagon  stop  about  fifty  yards 
from  the  road,  while  the  two  men  on  horseback 
dismounted  and  tied  their  horses.  Three  persons 
then  emerged  from  the  wagon,  and  the  horses  at- 
tached to  it  were  also  tied  to  a  tree.  A  short  and 
hurried  consultation  was  had,  which  resulted  in 
four  of  them,  one  being  evidently  a  guide,  strik- 
ing off  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  dam,  while 
one  remained  in  charge  of  the  horse  and  wagon. 

Davy  for  a  moment  was  staggered.  This  turn 
of  affairs  was  so  utterly  unexpected,  and  at  first  so 
incomprehensible,  that  he  was  completely  at  fault 
But  his  mind,  trained  to  meet  desperate  emergen- 
cies, quickly  rallied,  and  the  true  state  of  affairs 
flashed  like  lightning  upon  him.  There  was  trea- 
son somewhere,  and  the  kidnappers,  under  the  di- 
rection of  a  guide,  were  on  their  way  to  capture 
the  fugitives  at  the  deserted  house! 

His  mind  was  made  up  instantly.  These  men 
could  not  be  back  in  much  less  than  two  hours. 
The  way  was  rough  and  difficult  to  travel,  and  the 
fugitives  in  all  probability  would  make  some  de- 
fense. If  they  were  overcome,  the  task  of  bringing 
them  to  this  point  would  be  a  tedious  one.  Car- 
ter's was  but  half  a  mile  distant  and  Brown's  three- 
fourths  of  a  mile  farther  on.     From  both  these 


T.-IS    HJ-VrS-?.^    AVD    THEIR    PREY.  I09 

places  he  could  have  aid  before  the  return  of  the 
kidnappers,  sufficient  to  overcome  them  and  rescue 
the  fugitives. 

So  he  quietly  retreated  some  distance,  and  then 
started  off*  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Carter's  mill. 

He  was  a  swift  mover  and  a  rapid  thinker,  and  all 
his  energies  were  now  fully  aroused.  Before  he 
had  reached  the  ford  at  Carter's  he  had  decided 
what  course  to  pursue.  All  the  force  that  could 
be  rallied  must  be  brought  to  the  point  where  the 
slave-hunters  would  bring  their  prey.  It  would  be 
useless  to  attempt  to  follow  thsm  to  the  deserted 
house,  as  in  this  way  they  might  be  missed  and 
make  their  escape.  To  bring  a  force  sufficient  to 
overcome  them  and  rescue  the  fugitives,  when  they 
reached  the  point  where  the  horses  and  wagon  were 
standing,  was  now  Davy's  supreme  aim ;  to  this  he 
determined  to  bend  all  his  energies. 

Billy  Brown  sat  by  his  kitchen  fire,  after  the  de- 
parture of  Neddy  and  the  fugitives,  with  much  less 
than  his  usual  calmness.  He  felt,  of  course,  con- 
vinced that  the  kidnappers  would  be  foiled,  and  yet 
he  could  not  dispel  a  vague  uneasiness  that  some- 
thing might  yet  happen  to  place  the  fugitives  in 
their  power.  He  expected  their  arrival  some  time 
during  the  evening,  but  could  scarcely  resist  a 
desire  to  walk  out  on  the  road  they  would  approach 
and  catch  the  earliest  glimpse  of  them.  Indeed, 
something  might  have  happened  to  change  their 
plans,  and  possibly  they  would  not  come  at  all. 
Carter's  might  know  something  about  it  and  neglect 
to  send  him  word  that  night,  and   he  felt  a  strong 


-no  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

desire  to  walk  down  and  see.  But  Margaret  and 
Martha  would  be  alone  if  he  went,  and  that  would 
not  do  at  such  a  time.  So  he  contented  himself 
arranging  and  disarranging  the  fire,  with  the  great 
kitchen  tongs,  until  a  quiet  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door ;  and  in  answer  to  an  invitation  to  come  in, 
Joe  Simmons  entered,  carrying  his  double-barreled 
gun. 

Joe,  as  we  have  before  stated,  was  always  heartily 
welcome  at  Brown's,  being  a  favorite  with  all  the 
family;  and  to-night  he  was  greeted  with  more 
than  customary  warmth  ;  so  true  it  is  that  the  heart 
nestles  more  closely  to  tried  friends  when  care  and 
trouble  gather  around  us. 

He  was  scarcely  seated  by  the  kitchen  fire  when 
Billy  gave  him  a  brief  statement  of  the  condition 
of  affairs,  adding: 

**Joe,  I  guess  I'll  walk  down  toward  Carter's; 
mebby  they've  heerd  sumthih'  new  about  it;  will 
thee  stay  and  take  care  of  the  wimmen  ?" 

"Yes,  I'll  do  the  best  I  kin.  Peggy  didn't  yust 
to  be  very  skeery,  tho',  but  she  looks  a  little  oneasy 
to-night." 

Margaret  was  laboring  under  considerable  ex- 
citement, but  she  kept  it   down  and  said  nothing- 

Billy  lost  no  time  in  starting,  and  walked  rapidly 
in  the  direction  of  Carter's  mill.  Something  seemed 
to  impel  him  forward.  Reaching  the  top  of  the 
hill  he  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  boys  along  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  and  stopped  a  moment  until 
they  came  up. 

"  Well,"  inquired  he,  "how  did  Neddy  get  across  ?" 


THE    HUNTERS    AND    THEIR    PREY.  Ill 

"  Don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "  He  started  us 
off  as  soon  as  the  boat  was  up,  and  we  thought  we 
heard  somebody  a-screamin'  over  there  just  now; 
sumthin'  must  be  wrong." 

"  I'm  goin'  down  to  Carter's,  mebby  they  know 
sumthin'  ;    come  along." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  the  mill,  just  as 
Davy  McCann  and  Bristow  Wilson  were  coming 
out  at  the  door. 

**  Davy,  's  that  thee — what's  the  matter?" 

"  Matter  enuff,  I  was  just  cummin  after  ye;  follow 
me  now  and  ask  no  questions." 

The  whole  party  implicitly  obeyed;  after  they 
had  gone  a  short  distance  Davy  stopped  sud- 
denly : 

"Bristow,  have  ye  a  small  rope  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,  I  have,  an'  it's  a  mighty  good  one." 

"  Go  in  an'  git  it  as  quick  as  you  kin." 

Bristow's  house  was  on  the  way  from  the  mill  to 
the  foot-log,  over  which  they  would  cross  the 
creek.  He  entered,  and  in  a  few  minutes  re-ap- 
peared with  a  coil  of  stout  rope. 

"  Now,"  said  Davy,  we  must  stir  ourselves,  I'll 
go  ahead;  let  no  man  speak  a  word." 

Over  the  creek,  up  the  path  by  the  side  of  the 
road,  and  through  the  wood  they  followed  him  in 
Indian  file,  until  within  about  a  hundred  yards  of 
where  he  had  seen  the  slave-hunters  leave  their 
wagon  and  horses,  when  he  stopped. 

After  briefly  explaining  the  situation  he  said : 
'•There's  but  one  man  there  now,  but  he  must  be 
taken  by  surprise;    he's  arm'd  and   might  give  ye 


112  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

trouble.  We  must  surprise  him  and  tie  him,  so  as 
to  git  him  out  uv  the  way  when  the  rest  comes  up. 
You  stay  here  and  don't  move,  while  I  slip  up  and 
see  what  he's  doin'." 

So  Davy  glided  offthrough  the  darkness,  so  quiet 
and  cat-like  that  even  those  left  behind  could  scarcely 
see  his  movements.     In  a  few  minutes  he  returned. 

"  He's  sittin'  with  his  back  aginst  a  small  tree. 
I'll  slip  up  and  seize  him  ;  but  some  one  must  be 
close  behind  to  help  me.  We  must  not  let  him 
holler.     Who'll  go  with  me?" 

"I'll  go,"  said  Bristow,  quickly;  "here,  Billy 
take  the  rope." 

"  I'll  go,  too,"  said  Billy. 

"  No,  let  Bristow  come  alone,  we'll  have  plenty 
of  work  for  ye  all  after  a  bit." 

The  slave-hunter  was  sitting  on  the  ground  with 
his  back  against  a  small  tree,  and  his  eye  anxiously 
strained  in  the  direction  his  companions  had  gone. 
In  his  right  hand  he  held  a  small  single-barreled 
pistol,  more  because  he  had  brought  it  along,  than 
from  any  expectation  that  it  would  be  necessary  to 
use  it.  Suddenly  a  stinging  blow  fell  on  his  arm, 
the  pistol  dropped  from  his  grasp,  and  at  the  same 
moment  he  was  hurled  forward  to  the  ground,  face 
downward.  Attempting  to  recover  himself,  he 
found  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  two  powerful 
men,  and  was  informed,  in  no  very  gentle  terms, 
that  if  he  offered  any  further  resistance,  or  at- 
temped  to  scream  or  call  for  help,  the  pistol  that 
-had  just  fallen  from  his  hands  would  be  used  to 
blow  out  his  brains. 


THE  HUNTERS  AND  THEIR  PREY.       Ill 

This  information  had  the  desired  effect,  and  no 
further  resistance  was  offered.  Billy  came  up  with 
the  rope,  and  the  man  was  securely  tied  and  lifted 
into  the  wagon. 

Bristow  could  not  resist  an  inward  chuckle. 
"Billy,"  said  he,  heartily,  "that's  what  would  be 
call'd  a  good  job ;''  and  his  powerful  frame  shook 
with  suppressed  laughter. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Davy,  "we've  a  heap  to  do 
yet.  They'll  soon  be  here,  I  think.  Now  we'll 
leave  the  horses  and  wagon  jest  as  they  are,  so's  if 
they  see  'em  they'll  think  all's  right.  You  jes  slip 
into  that  bunch  of  laurels,  all  of  ye.  I'll  stay  here 
an'  watch,  an'  if  this  feller  shows  any  signs  of 
makin'  a  fuss,  I'll  give  him  the  medasun  he  brot 
along  for  us,  with  this."  He  held  up  the  pistol, 
and  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  dangerous  fire. 

So,  into  the  bunch  of  laurels  the  four,  Bristow, 
Billy  and  the  two  boys,  went  and  seated  themselves 
as  comfortably  as  they  could,  while  Davy  kept  a 
lookout  for  the  approaching  slave-hunters,  and  an 
eye  on  the  captive  in  the  wagon. 

When  the  party  of  kidnappers,  guided  by  Sam 
Doane,  as  our  readers  have  already  suspected,  left 
their  horses  and  wagon  in  the  woods  they  proceed- 
ed as  rapidly  as  possible  toward  the  deserted  house. 
Sam  had  learned,  by  means  that  our  readers  will 
find  out  by  and  by,  of  the  plan  of  secreting  the 
fugitives,  and  resolved  at  once  to  take  advantage  of 
it.  He  had  conveyed  information  to  the  hunters 
in  the  morning,  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  this 
that  they  started  so  early,  in  order,  if  possible,  to 


114  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

reach  the  vicinity  of  the  house  and  conceal  them- 
selves before  the  arrival  of  the  fugitives. 

In  pursuance  of  this  plan  they  moved  rapidly  up 
the  right  bank  of  the  creek,  under  the  guidance  of 
Sam,  who  knew  the  place  well,  and  secreted  them- 
selves in  the  bushes  at  the  very  point  where  Neddy 
landed  with  the  boat,  as  we  have  already  learned. 

Their  design  had  been,  at  first,  to  let  the 
whole  party  land  and  then  overpower  them,  tie 
Neddy,  leave  him  in  the  deserted  house,  and  take 
the  fugitives  down  in  a  boat  to  a  point  near  where 
they  had  left  the  team;  but  when  he  got  out 
of  the  boat  and  started  toward  the  house  alone, 
they  saw  their  difficulties  much  lessened.  Waiting 
until  he  had  reached  the  house,  two  of  them  step- 
ped forward,  sprang  into  the  boat  and  with  drawn 
pistols  ordered  the  fugitives  to  utter  not  a  word. 

John  felt  impelled  to  leap  into  the  stream,  but 
the  sight  of  the  pistols  quieted  him,  and  he  re- 
lapsed into  his  customary  stolidity. 

Not  so,  however,  with  Mary.  The  sight  of  her 
master,  appearing  so  suddenly,  so  unexpectedly 
and  so  incomprehensibly,  with  the  conviction  that 
she  and  her  child  were  again  hopelessly  in  his 
power,  brought  to  her  mind  so  forcibly  the  utter 
wretchedness  of  her  situation  that  she  uttered  the 
despairing  shriek  that  had  so  startled  Neddy,  and 
fell  on  the  bottom  of  the  boat  in  a  dead  swoon. 

The  slave-catchers  feeling  that  no  time  was  to  be 
lost,  immediately  placed  apairofhandcuffson  John, 
who  made  no  resistance,  laid   the  woman  in  one 


THE    HUNTERS    AND    THEIR    PREY.  II5 

end  of  the  boat,  seated  Charlie,  who  was  terror- 
stricken  and  bewildered,  by  her  side,  and  pushed 
rapidly  down  the  stream. 

Their  great  object  now  was  to  make  the  best 
possible  time.  If  they  could  reach  the  wagon  with 
their  captives  and  get  fairly  started  on  the  road  home 
before  the  neighborhood  was  alarmed,  there  would 
be  no  danger.  But  of  this  they  did  not  feel  sure. 
Neddy  would  be  certain  to  take  some  action  to  in- 
tercept them,  as  soon  as  he  discovered  what  had 
occurred,  and  they  felt  that  every  moment  was  of 
the  utmost  importance. 

So  they  made  with  all  possible  speed  for  the 
point  on  the  dam  nearest  the  place  their  wagon  and 
horses  had  been  left,  and  having  reached  it,  jumped 
out  on  the  bank,  which  was  low  there,  and  prepared 
to  move  as  rapidly  as  possible  through  the 
wood. 

Mary,  who  had  recovered  consciousness,  stepped 
slowly  and  wearily  from  the  boat,  while  one  of  the 
kidnappers  took  Charlie  in  his  arms  and  set  him  on 
shore.  They  then  discussed  the  propriety  of  tying 
her  hands  before  starting,  but  one  more  sagacious 
than  the  rest  said: 

"No  use  in  tyin'  the  wench,  she'll  not  run  away 
while  we've  got  the  young  un." 

So  they  started  forward,  the  guide  in  advance  ; 
John,  who  was  handcuffed,  followed  ;  next  came  his 
owner,  carrying  Charlie,  then  Mary,  while  the  two 
remaining  slave-catchers  brought  up  the  rear. 

The  prediction  in  regard  to  Mary   proved  true. 


I 

no  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

She  followed  her  master,  who  bore  the  boy  in  his 
arms,  without  making  any  attempt  to  escape. 

Davy's  quick  ear  detected  their  approach  in  the 
distance.  He  glided  silently  in  that  direction,  and 
returning,  whispered  : 

"  Keep  still  as  death.  They'll  pass  close  by  where 
we  are.  Brister  and  Billy  take  the  two  hindmost 
men.  You  boys,  the  one  ahead,  and  I'll  tackle  the 
fellow  that's  carryin'  the  boy.  I'll  yell ;  it'll  skeer 
'em,  an'  they'll  be  easier  trounced." 

On  they  came,  with  Sam  Doan  at  their  head. 
Little  did  they  think  that  strong  arms  and  beating 
hearts  were  close  by,  ready  to  hurl  them  to  the  earth. 

They  moved  more  slowly  as  they  neared  the 
wagon,  and  paused  within  a  few  rods  of  the  clump 
of  laurels  where  the  rescuers  were  concealed.  Just 
at  this  moment  Davy  uttered  one  of  the  most  un- 
earthly yells  that  ever  resounded  in  human  ears 
and  springing  forward  with  the  agility  of  a  panther 
grappled  the  man  who  held  the  boy  in  his  arms. 
Bristow  and  Billy  each  went  for  his  man,  and  in  less 
time  than  it  takes  to  relate  it,  were  engaged  in  a 
fierce  struggle.  Sam  Doan  was  for  a  moment  be- 
wildered, but  quickly  recovering,  before  the  boys 
could  reach  him,  started  through  the  woods  with 
the  fleetness  of  a  deer.  They  attempted  pursuit 
but  were  recalled  by  Davy,  who,  never  losing  his 
presence  of  mind,  understood  that  nothing  more 
was  to  be  apprehended  from  Sam,  while  the  boys 
were  badly  needed  where  the  contest  was  now 
raging  in  full  fury. 


THE    HUNTERS   AND    THEIR    PREY.  II 7 

When  the  man  tvho  carried  Charlie  realized  that 
they  were  attacked,  he  dropped  him  and  closed 
with  his  assailant.  The  boy  was  slightly  hurt  and 
badly  scared,  and  uttered  a  suppressed  scream.  In 
a  moment  his  mother,  who,  until  now,  scarcely  re- 
alized the  situation,  grasped  him  in  her  arms-one 
thought  filling  her  mind — one  purpose  in  her  soul. 
He  was  hers  again,  and  there  was  hope.  How 
much,  she  did  not  know — she  did  not  care.  She 
was  free  again,  her  child  was  in  her  arms,  and 
through  the  deep,  dark  wood,  with  the  swiftness  of 
thought  she  fled.  Onward  —  onward  —  onward. 
Like  the  mother  who  scaled  the  mountain  top — 
hitherto  inaccessible  to  human  feet — to  bring  back 
her  child,  which  the  eagle  had  borne  to  his  eyrie, 
on  she  went.  No  weakness  or  weariness  oppress 
her  now.  Strength  and  activity  are  hers  in  meas- 
ureless profusion.  The  boy  does  not  feel  to  her  a 
feather's  weight,  and  her  feet  scarcely  seem  to 
touch  the  earth.  That  mysterious  store-house  of 
nature,  in  which  latent  strength  and  energy  are 
laid  away  for  great  occasions — and  for  them  alone — 
is  unlocked  and  its  treasures  are  hers.  On — on — 
on — till  she  sees  the  waters  glistening  through  the 
trees  and  knows  it  is  the  Octorara.  Down  beside 
the  stream,  without  abating  her  speed,  until  she 
reaches  a  foot-log  which  crosses  the  creek.  Her 
mind  is  clear — clear  as  her  purpose  is  strong.  She 
recognizes  the  place  as  that  where  she  had  crossed 
with  Davy,  when  on  the  road  to  Brown's.  Her 
heart  gives  a  great  throb  of  joy,  for  now  she  knows 


Il8  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

the  way  to  a  place  of  comparative  safety.  Across 
the  log,  high  and  narrow  though  it  was,  with  Char- 
lie in  her  arms,  she  went.  Her  footsteps  never  fal- 
tered, her  purpose  never  flagged.  Across  the  creek 
and  over  the  route  that  Davy  had  taken  her  and 
John,  she  fled.  Up  the  hill  from  Carter's,  with  the 
boy  pressed  closely  to  her  bosom,  she  goes.  Her 
shawl  has  been  torn  from  her  shoulders  and  is 
hanging  on  the  bushes  in  the  dark  wood  behind. 
Charlie's  cloak  has  been  rent,  and  is  in  fragments, 
but  he  is  unhurt,  and  out  of  the  hands  of  the  slave 
hunters.  That  thought  fills  her  soul  and  she  cares 
not  for  shawl  or  cloak.  She  has  reached  the  top 
of  the  hill,  and  now,  down  another,  and  she  will 
soon  be  at  Brown's. 

Her  speed  less-^ns  as  she  nears  the  house,  her 
limbs  tremble,  her  breath  grows  thick  and  short, 
but  still  she  presses  on — still  she  clasps  the  boy  to 
her  heart.  The  yard-gate  is  reached,  and  pushing 
it  open,  she  sees,  through  the  window  by  the  fire- 
light, Margaret  Brown  seated  at  the  kitchen  fire. 
One  more  effort,  and  all  will  be  well.  Gathering 
up  every  energy  she  throws  open  the  door  and  with 
eyes  distended,  great  clusters  of  foam  gathered] 
about  her  mouth,  and  blood  streaming  from  her) 
nostrils,  totters  feebly  forward,  and  placing  the  boyj 
in  Margaret's  arms,  exclaims  : 

"Take  him — oh  God  !     Missus — take  him,"  an( 
fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER   X. 


FOILED. 

"  He  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scroll  of  law  and  creed, 

In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  shall  find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with  chain  and  rod, 
And  herds  with  lower  natures  the  awful  form  of  God."' 

When  Jem  Body  parted  with  Neddy  and  Bris- 
tow  Wilson  at  the  mill,  he  made  his  way  home 
with  all  possible  speed.  He  never  missed  a  danc- 
ing party  among  the  colored  people,  when  it  was 
possible  to  attend,  and  had  pledged  his  word  to 
be  present  at  this  one.  He  regretted  the  necessity 
which  forced  him  to  disregard  the  request  of 
these  m::n,  for  Jem  was  true  to  his  race,  and 
would  gladly  have  rendered  assistance  to  the  fugi- 
tives ;  but  he  could  not  think  of  absenting  himself 
on  this  occasion,  and  to  attend  to  both  was  simply 
impossible. 

Besides,  he  had  an  additional  motive  for  wishing 
to  be  present  at  the  party.  He  had  some  time  pre- 
viously made  the  acquaintance  of  a  dusky  damsel, 
several  shades  lighter  than  himself,  whose  sprightly 
ways  and  pleasing  looks  had  quite  captivated  him, 
and  having  seen  her  *'  home  from  meetin'  "  on  the 
previous  Sunday  evening,  she  had  informed  him 
that  she  would,  beyond  a  doubt,  be  at  the  party 
that  night.  Under  such  circumstances  it  was  out 
of  the  question  for  Jem  to  permit  anything  to  pre- 
vent his  attendance. 

On  his  way  home  he  revolved  the  subject  in  his 
mind,  and  repeated  to  himself,  audibly,  the  import- 

119 


I20  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ance  of  keeping  what  he  had  heard  a  profound  se- 
cret. "  Dat  I  won't  tell  nobody,  be  derned  if  I  do, 
not  even  de  gal,"  was  his  concluding  remark. 

The  house,  occupied  by  a  negro  named  Porter, 
at  which  the  party  was  held,  was  a  small  log  build- 
ing, such  as  was  usual  for  colored  people  to  occupy 
in  those  days,  and  was  located  some  distance  north 
of  where  Jem  lived,  and  about  two  miles  from  the 
deserted  house.  To  this  place  Jem  repaired,  after 
he  had  reached  home  and  made  such  arrangements 
as  were  necessary  for  an  early  departure  with  his 
team  in  the  morning. 

When  he  reached  the  party  it  was  quite  late,  and 
the  dancing  had  been  for  some  time  in  progress. 
The  house  was  crowded,  and  in  order  to  make  room 
for  the  dancers,  a  number  remained  outside  and 
enjoyed  the  scene  by  looking  through  the  windows. 
Of  the  lookers-on,  several  were  white  persons, 
whom  curiosity  had  brought  to  the  place  in  order 
to  see  the  dancing,  for  in  this  amusement  the  ne- 
groes were  noted  for  great  proficiency. 

Jem  entered  with  zest  into  the  exercises  of  the 
evening,  and  for  a  while  forgot  all  about  the  con- 
versation at  the  mill.  His  favorite  girl  was  there, 
as  she  had  promised  to  be,  and  the  pleasure  of  the 
dance  and  her  society  drove  all  other  thoughts 
from  his  mind. 

It  was  customary  at  such  gatherings,  at  that 
time,  to  have  a  plentiful  supply  of  whisky  on  hand, 
and  this  one  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  It  was 
usually  secreted  in  some  place  out  of  doors,  and 
there  the  male  portion  of  the  dancers  repaired  oc- 


FOILED.  121 

casionally,  and  semi-occasionally,  to  refresh  them- 
selves. 

On  the  evening  in  question  two  half-gallon  jugs 
filled  with  ''  rye  "  had  been  hidden  in  a  small  stable 
near  the  house,  and  a  few  favorites  of  the  host, 
among  whom  were  Jem  Body,  informed  of  it. 
They  commenced  by  going  out  slyly  and  partak- 
ing moderately  of  the  "  critter,"  but  soon  became 
less  careful  and  more  demonstrative,  as  they  began 
to  feel  its  effects.  Jem  was  not  a  habitual  drinker, 
but  on  such  occasions,  when  surrounded  by  boon 
companions,  was  apt  to  get  a  little  **  mellow,"  and 
was  then,  like  most  other  men,  more  than  usually 
communicative. 

After  several  potations  the  secret  he  had  learned 
from  Neddy  and  Bristow  Wilson  began  to  oppress 
him,  and  he  commenced  throwing  out  vague  hints 
that  he  **  know'd  sumthin',  but  there  wasn't  enny 
body  goin'  to  find  it  out — not  enny!' 

After  a  few  more  drinks  Jem  began  to  inform 
his  companions,  as  they  gathered  round  the  jugs 
which  were  rapidly  being  emptied,  that  he  was 
"jest  de  boy  to  go  thro'  a  kidnapper,"  adding,  "  and 
dey's  about  too,  boys,  I  tell  you  dey  is." 

Now  Sam  Doan,  who  was  coaling  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, was  one  among  the  white  people  who 
were  looking  on  at  the  dance.  In  fact,  he  had 
come  for  the  express  purpose  of  ascertaining,  if 
possible,  whether  any  of  the  negroes  in  the  neigh- 
borhood knew  of  the  presence  of  the  fugitives  at 
Brown's,  and  whether  there  was  any  project  on 
hand  to  remove  them.     Sam  was  in  communication 


122  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

with  the  slave-hunters,  and  having  been  promised 
a  large  reward  if  they  were  successful,  he  was  on 
the  alert  to  detect  any  scheme  that  would  frustrate 
their  plans. 

Understanding  well  the  virtue  of  whisky  in  ob- 
taining secrets  from  these  people,  he  had  provided 
himself  with  a  bottle,  which  he  had  concealed  some 
distance  from  the  house,  intending  to  use  it  when 
the  proper  time  arrived. 

The  exclamation  of  Jem  in  regard  to  kidnappers, 
which  was  made  in  a  loud  voice,  reached  his  ear 
and  excited  his  curiosity.  He  determined  to  keep 
a  sharp  lookout. 

After  some  time  Jem  Body,  who  now  saw  the 
world  and  its  inhabitants  through  an  entirely  differ- 
ent medium  from  what  he  had  some  hours  previ- 
ously, concluded  that  he  must  impart  the  grand  se- 
cret to  a  few  of  his  companions.  Taking  themj 
out  some  distance  from  the  house,  he  told  them  ol 
the  whereabouts  of  the  fugitives  and  the  plan  on 
foot  to  avoid  the  slave-catchers.  In  his  enthusi- 
asm he  claimed  to  have  originated  the  idea  of  con- 
veying them  to  the  deserted  house,  and  assured  his 
hearers  that  "  De  debbil  himself  couldn't  find  'em 
dar."  All  this  was  done  amid  profuse  promises  on 
the  part  of  those  who  received  the  information  that 
they  "  never  would  tell  a  livin'  critter." 

Sam  was  on  the  alert,  and,  though  he  heard 
nothing,  was  sure  from  Jem's  manner  and  his  pre- 
vious declarations  that  he  was  communicating 
something  in  relation  to  the  fugitives. 

Among  those  who  formed  the  group  to  whom 
5* 


I 


FOILED.  123 

Jem  imparted  his  secret  was  one  that  Sam  knew  to 
be  unusually  fond  of  liquor,  having  frequently  fur- 
nished him  with  that  beverage  on  former  occasions 
when  he  desired  to  be  initiated  into  his  good  graces ; 
from  him  he  determined  to  find  out  what  Jem  had 
said. 

Watching  his  opportunity  when  no  one  was  nigh, 
he  slipped  up  and  whispered : 

**  Wouldn't  ye  like  to  have  a  little  reel  good 
stuff." 

"Yes,  sah,  I  wud  indeed.     Has  ye  got  sum?" 
"Jes  go  out  behint  that  big  oak  tree  off  yander, 
an'  wait  till  I  cum." 

So  off  went  the  thirsty  gentleman  of  color,  and 
the  wary  old  collier  soon  followed.  When  he 
reached  the  tree  indicated  he  drew  forth  from  a 
little  hollow,  close  beside  the  tree,  a  quart  bottle 
filled  with  whisky,  where  it  lay  covered  with 
leaves. 

Seating  themselves  on  the  ground  the  two  pro- 
ceeded to  test  the  quality  of  the  liquor.  The  ne- 
gro pronounced  it  "fust  rate,"  and  indulged  in  deep 
potations,  while  Sam  tasted  it  with  great  caution, 
but  was  equally  profuse  in  its  praises.  Gradually 
the  latter  drew  the  conversation  on  to  the  desired 
subject,  and  succeeded  in  eliciting  from  his  com- 
panion the  whole  story  that  Jem  had  imparted. 

He  saw  at  once  the  great  importance  of  prompt 
action,  and  after  making  a  few  remarks  on  other 
subjects  declared  that  he  must  "go  over  and  see 
to  the  pits,"  as  he  had  almost  forgotten  them.  He 
left,  however,  what  remained  of  the  liquor  with 


124  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

his  colored  friend,  telling  him  he  was  welcome  to 
it  all. 

Sam  proceeded  at  once  to  the  coaling  ground, 
and  after  examining  his  pits,  left  them  in  charge  of 
his  assistant,  while  he  hastened  to  inform  the  slave- 
catchers,  who  were  at  the  tavern  before  referred  to, 
of  the  contemplated  movement  that  night.  After 
a  long  conversation,  the  plan  already  known  to  our 
readers  was  agreed  upon,  and  Sam  returned  with 
the  promise  to  meet  them  near  Buckingham  school- 
house,  on  the  next  evening  at  dark,  which  he  did. 
He  was  exceedingly  cautious  in  his  movements, 
fearing  vengeance  from  the  colored  people,  if  de- 
tected. This  was  the  reason  of  his  precipitate 
flight  when  the  party  were  attacked,  as  has  been 
before  described. 

Neddy  Johnson  remained  for  some  moments  ri- 
veted to  the  spot  when  he  heard  the  appalling 
shriek  uttered  by  Mary  upon  discovering  that  she 
was  again  in  the  hands  of  her  master.  He  was  as- 
tounded, bewildered  and,  for  a  moment,  terrified.  He 
had  felt  so  perfectly  secure  that  the  idea  of  detec- 
tion or  discovery  never  entered  his  mind.  The 
knowledge  that  something  of  that  kind  had  hap- 
pened came  upon  him  like  a  clap  of  thunder  from 
a  clear  sky. 

Recovering  himself,  he  proceeded  cautiously  to- 
ward the  place  where  he  had  left  the  boat  and  its 
occupants,  and  on  reaching  it  discovered  that  they 
were  gone.  Peering  through  the  darkness,  he  saw 
the  boat  moving  rapidly  down  the  dam,  and  already 


FOILED.  125 

some  distance  away;  while  the  forms  of  several 
men  could  be  discerned  on  board. 

Neddy's  mind  did  not  act  rapidly;  but  his  judg- 
ment was  generally  correct.  Remembering  the 
conversation  with  Jem  Body,  and  the  terrible  fright 
indicated  by  Mary's  shriek,  he  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  these  were  the  slave-catchers,  and  that  by 
some  means  they  had  become  possessed  of  the  in- 
formation communicated  to  Jem,  which  had  enabled 
them  thus  to  outwit  and  circumvent  the  fugitives 
and  their  friends. 

But  he  did  not  give  up  to  despair.  He  promptly 
resolved  to  follow  them  and  take  advantage  of 
the  first  opportunity,  should  any  occur,  to  recover 
the  runaways. 

In  pursuance  of  this,  he  proceeded  down  the 
bank  of  the  stream  as  rapidly  as  possible ;  but  the 
way  being  rough  and  difficult,  his  progress  was 
necessarily  slow.  Emerging  at  length  from  the 
woods,  he  reached  an  open  field,  and  after  passing 
this  and  groping  for  a  short  distance  through  an- 
other wood,  came  upon  the  boat  where  it  had  been 
left  by  the  slave-catchers  when  they  landed  with 
their  captives.  This  was  a  poser,  and  he  cudgeled 
his  brain  in  vain  to  find  a  satisfactory  solution  of  it. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  they  had  left  a  team 
near  the  public  road,  and  that  this  was  the  nearest 
point  from  which  to  reach  it.  While  he  was  mak- 
ing fruitless  efforts  to  see  through  the  difficulty, 
the  yell  of  Davy  McCann,  the  signal  for  the  attack 
on  the  slave-catchers,  resounded  in  his  ears  and 
decided  his  course.     With  scarcely  any  conception 


1 


126 


JOHN    AND    MARY 


of  what  it  meant,  but  feeling  sure  it  was  something] 
connected  with  the  fugitives  and  their  captors,  he] 
started  in  that  direction  at  full  speed. 

When    Davy  McCann   recalled    Henry    Brownl 
and  Samuel   Weaver  from   their  pursuit  of  Sam 
Doan,  he  began  to  feel  that  he  needed  all  the  aid  he^ 
could  muster.     He  had,  in  fact,  attacked  the  most 
formidable  man  of  the  crowd,  and  though  he  re-] 
tained  in  a  remarkable  degree  the  strength   and' 
agility  that  had  characterized  him  in  early  life,  yet 
age  had  impaired   his   power   of   endurance   to 
greater  extent  than  he  was  willing  to  admit.     His^ 
opponent  was  a  man  of  iron  frame,  in  the  prime  of 
life,  possessing  coolness  and  courage   as   well  as 
great  activity.     Though  disconcerted  at  first  by  the 
suddenness  of   the  attack,  he  speedily  recovered; 
and  had  not  Davy  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  call 
back  the  boys  to  his  aid,  he   would  undoubtedly 
have  come  out  second  best  in  the  struggle.     As 
was,  with  their  aid  the  man  was  borne  slowly  to  th< 
ground,  and  preparations  made  to  tie  him. 

Billy  Brown  and  Bristow  Wilson  had  each  gotth( 
better  of  his  man  without  much  difficulty,  but 
neither  could  secure  them  without  help,  and  it  wi 
unsafe  to  let  them  go ;  so  they  had  to  remain  pas- 
sive spectators  of  Davy's  struggle  with  his  formida- 
ble opponent,  without  having  it  in  their  power  t( 
render  any  assistance. 

In  the  meantime,  the  man  who  had  been  tied  am 
placed  in  the  wagon  before  the  arrival  of  the  fugi- 
tives and  their  captors,  had  not  been  by  any  mean* 
a  quiet  spectator  of  the  affair.     From  the  momerti 


FOILED.  127 

of  the  attack  on  his  comrades,  he  had  been  using 
his  utmost  efforts  to  slip  the  rope  with  which  his 
hands  were  tied  ;  and  about  the  time  Davy  and  the 
boys  had  fairly  overcome  their  man,  he  succeeded. 
This  accomplished,  the  rest  was  short  work ;  taking 
out  his  pocket-knife,  which  his  captors  had  left  un- 
touched, he  quickly  cut  the  cords  which  bound 
him,  and  leaping  from  the  wagon,  rushed  to  the 
assistance  of  his  friends. 

Bristow  Wilson,  who  had  been  watching  with 
unconcealed  anxiety  the  progress  of  the  affair,  saw 
this  new  feature  in  the  struggle,  and  felt  that  the 
time  for  decisive  action  had  come.  Leaving  his 
man  on  the  ground,  he  sprang  like  a  tiger  toward 
the  released  captive,  and  quick  as  lightning  dealt 
him  a  crushing  blow  which  sent  him  quivering  to 
the  earth. 

In  the  meantime  the  man  he  had  left,  who  was 
yet  unhurt,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  was  in  the  act  of 
drawing  a  pistol,  which  had  remained  concealed 
about  his  person,  when  a  blow  dealt  by  some  un- 
seen hand  laid  him  prostrate  and  senseless  on  the 
ground. 

This  was  Neddy,  who,  coming  up  unnoticed,  had 
taken  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  and  being  in  no 
humor  for  half-way  measures,  had  struck  him  with 
all  the  force  he  could  command. 

This  decided  the  contest;  the  three  men  were 
tied,  and  the  one  who  had  given  Davy  so  much 
trouble  had  the  hand-cuffs  he  had  put  on  John 
placed  on  his  own  wrists.  He  took  it  coolly,  and 
said  nothing. 


128  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

John  had  remained  a  passive  spectator  of  the 
affair,  neither  endeavoring  to  escape  nor  offering  to 
assist.  He  could  not  have  rendered  much  assist- 
ance, being  hand-cuffed,  but  he  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  try.  He  manifested  the  same  stoHd  indiffer- 
ence that  had  characterized  him  ever  since  his  first 
appearance  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Where's  Mary?"  said  Billy  Brown,  when  the 
men  were  securely  tied. 

"She's  dun  gon',"  said  John,  "she  went  off 
through  de  woods,  takin'  de  young  un." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Bristow,  "  she'll  take  care  of 
herself  We'll  find  her  to-morrow  if  we  don't  to- 
night.    What  '11  we  do  with  these  rascals?" 

That  was  indeed  the  important  question.  They^ 
felt  as  though  an  elephant  was  on  their  hands,] 
which  they  scarcely  knew  how  to  dispose  of 

"  Sarch  'em,"  said  Billy  Brown,  "  the  first  thing 
and  see  if  they've  got  enny  more  pistols." 

This  suggestion  was  adopted,  and  all  were  found 
to  have  arms.  The  suddenness  of  the  attack 
had  prevented  them  from  being  brought  into  use. 
These  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  Neddy  an< 
the  two  boys  to  guard  the  prisoners,  while  th< 
other  three  retired  some  distance  to  consult. 

It  will  be  recollected  by  those  whose  memories 
carry  them  back  to  that  period,  that  the  laws  in  re-j 
lation  to  fugitive  slaves  were  then  but  imperfectly 
understood.  In  fact,  there  was  no  very  well  definec 
law  on  the  subject.  There  was  a  Federal  enact- 
ment authorizing  justices  of  the  peace  and  othei 
State  officers  to  issue  warrants  for  the  arrest 


FOILED. 


129 


fugitives,  and  there  were  State  laws  to  prevent  kid- 
napping, etc.,  but  they  were  Httle  understood  by 
the  common  people. 

Our  friends  were  well  convinced  that  the  slave- 
catchers  would  be  glad  to  get  back  into  Maryland 
without  their  slaves,  if  permitted  to  go,  and  would 
not  be  likely  to  return.  This  was,  of  couse,  all 
they  could  reasonably  expect,  but  their  blood  was 
up,  and  they  felt  that  such  an  outrage  should  be 
punished  by  law  if  possible. 

After  some  consultation  Davy  proposed  that  they 
should  refer  the  matter  to  Grandfather  Carter. 
Everybody  relied  upon  his  sound  judgment,  and 
he  had  much  experience  in  public  affairs.  This  all 
hands  agreed  to,  and  Bristow  was  sent  off  to  ob- 
tain his  opinion. 

Grandfather  Carter  was  in  bed,  entirely  ignorant 
of  the  night's  performance,  when  Bristow  arrived. 
The  events  which  had  transpired  being  related  to 
him,  he  was  much  surprised,  but  expressed  great 
satisfaction  at  the  result.  He  felt  as  the  rest  did, 
that  it  would  be  very  gratifying  to  have  the  kid- 
nappers punished  by  law,  but  doubted  the  propriety 
of  retaining  them.  His  experience  at  court  in  con- 
tests with  slave-holders  had  made  him  wary  of  en- 
tering them,  and  when  the  main  point,  the  escape 
of  the  slaves,  could  be  secured  without  it,  he  pre- 
ferred to  avoid  them. 

"  Bristow,"  said  he,  "  if  we  prosecute  them  the 
chances  are  that  we  will  lose  the  suit,  and  in  the  end 
they'll  be  purty  sure  to  git  the  slaves.  They'd  bet- 
ter let  the  fellows  go  ;  they're  frighten'd  now,  and 


I30 


JOHN    AND    MARY. 


won't  come  back  soon.  In  the  meantime  the  blacks 
can  get  to  a  place  of  safety." 

This  advice  agreed  with  the  conclusion  previously- 
arrived  at,  and  Bristow  hastened  to  return  and 
make  it  known  to  his  comrades.  They  at  once 
prepared  to  put  it  in  execution. 

Bristow  was  spokesman  for  the  party.  Stepping 
forward  with  an  unaffected  dignity  that  never  for- 
sook him,  and  a  force  and  effect  that  always  ac- 
companied his  words,  he  told  the  slave-hunters  of 
the  conclusion  that  had  been  arrived  at.  He  in- 
formed them  if  they  would  go  home  and  promise 
not  to  return  in  search  of  these  people,  they  would 
be  set  at  liberty ;  otherwise  they  would  be  prose- 
cuted for  kidnapping. 

He  did  not  expect  their  promise  to  be  of  much 
value,  but  thought  he  might  as  well  exact  it,  as  it 
could  do  no  harm;  he  had  far  more  faith  in  their 
being  deterred  by  the  wholesome  fear  that  the  oc- 
currences of  the  night  had  inspired. 

They  hesitated  about  promising,  but  finally 
agreed  to  do  so.  The  two  who  had  come  on 
horseback  were  then  released  and  started  off  Af- 
ter some  time  the  one  who  had  been  handcuffed 
was  placed  in  the  wagon,  and  his  companion 
untied.  These  were  also  soon  started  off,  and  the 
victors  remained  alone  on  the  ground. 

It  was  now  well  nigh  midnight.  The  moon, 
had  long  since  disappeared.  The  little  stars  looked 
down  silently  through  the  tops  of  the  forest  trees, 
unmindful  of  the  fierce  struggle  they  had  just  wit- 


FOILED.  131 

nessed.  The  dull  roar  of  Carter's  dam  was  the 
only  sound  that  disturbed  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

The  parties  slowly  separated;  Davy  McCann  go- 
ing alone  toward  his  home,  while  the  rest  started 
in  the  direction  of  Carter's.  Previous  to  leaving 
Davy  informed  the  rest  that  he  would  see  them  on 
the  next  evening. 

It  was  agreed  that  John  should  go  back  to 
Brown's,  until  the  whereabouts  of  Mary  was  dis- 
covered ;  when  measures  must  be  taken  to  have 
them  at  once  removed. 

The  impression  with  all  hands  was  that  she 
must  have  taken  refuge  at  some  house  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  would  be  discovered  in  the 
morning. 

**  Ging-god,"  said  Neddy,  "  Dat  woman  beats 
all  ever  I  seed.  She's  wuth  half  a  dozen  sich  fel- 
lows as  her  man." 

John  was  walking  behind,  but  did  not  notice  the 
remark ;  all  who  heard  felt  its  truth. 

Bristow  thought  it  possible  that  she  had  stopped 
at  his  house,  which  was  on  the  road  she  had  most 
probably  taken.  When  they  reached  it  he  inquired, 
but  no  one  had  been  there. 

Billy  Brown  and  the  boys  hurried  home.  They 
knew  the  family  would  be  uneasy  at  their  prolonged 
absence,  and  thought  it  quite  possible  that  Mary 
had  reached  there.  On  their  arrival  they  found 
this  conjecture  correct;  Mary  was  there,  and  the 
circumstances  of  her  arrival  were  related  by  Mar- 
garet and  Joe. 


132 


JOHN    AND    MARY. 


They  had  brought  down  a  bed  into  the  parlor 
and  kindled  a  wood  fire  there.  Mary  was  laid  on 
the  bed,  and  after  having  some  French  brandy 
forced  into  her  mouth,  partially  recovered.  She 
was  much  agitated  though,  and  started  up  wildly 
every  few  minutes,  calling  for  Charlie,  and  mani- 
festing what  Margaret  called  **flightiness."  Her, 
nervous  system  had  evidently  received  a  severe 
shock. 

Billy  related  what  had  happened  during  the 
night,  and  all  listened  with  the  deepest  attention. 
A  feeling  of  great  relief  showed  itself  on  Marga- 
ret's face  when  he  concluded  by  expressing  hisi 
conviction  that  there  was  no  danger  of  the  slave- 
catchers  returning. 

The  family  then,  with  the  exception  of  Margaret, 
retired  to  bed;  she  was  not  willing  to  leave  Mary 
in  her  present  condition  without  some  one  to  watch 
at  her  bedside;  and  there  was  no  one  suitable  for 
the  task  but  herself 

The  woman  was   restless  and    feverish  through 
the  night,  and  showed   unmistakable  symptoms  of j 
delirium.     Margaret  was  a  good  deal  alarmed,  and^ 
told  her  husband,  when  he  came  down-stairs  in  the 
morning,  that  he  had  better  go  for  Doctor  King 
without  delay. 


r 


CHAPTER  XI 


DOCTOR    KING. 

'  The  violet  droops  its  soft  and  bashful  brow, 
But  from  its  heart  sweet  incense  fills  the  air — 
So  rich  within — so  pure  without— art  thou, 
With  modest  mein  and  soul  of  virtue  rare." 

No  man  ever  lived  in  the  section  of  country 
where  the  events  we  have  been  describing  trans  - 
pirerj,  more  generally  beloved  and  universally  re- 
^spected  than  Doctor  Jeremiah  King.  At  the  period 
to  which  we  refer,  he  resided  in  Little  Britain  town- 
ship, Lancaster  county,  near  the  village  now  known 
as  Oak  Hill,  but  which  at  that  time  went  by  the 
name  of  '*  Hill  Tavern,"  a  tavern,  store  and  one  or 
two  other  houses  comprising  the  settlement. 

A  short  distance  from  here  was  the  residence  of 
Dr.  King.     The  house  was  a   small   log  building 
Jnearly  surrounded  by  woods,  and   some  distance 
from  the  public  road,  from  which  it  was  approached 
thy  a  foot-path.     The  doctor  at  this  time  was  pro- 
[bably  about  40  years  of  age,   and  had  for  many 
ryears   renounced  the  practice  of    medicine,  as    a 
business.     This  was  not  for  want  of  practice,  nor 
because  he  lacked  skill  or  knowledge  in  his  profes- 
sion, for  no  physician  in  that  neighborhood,  how- 
ever   popular,   possessed  public   confidence  to  so 
great  an  extent  as  he. 

He  possessed  in  a  remarkable  degree  the  virtues 
of   modesty  and  conscientiousness,   two    traits  of 
6"^  133 


134  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

character  perhaps  as  rare  as  they  are  valuable.  It 
is  said  that  he  gave  as  a  reason  for  retiring  from 
the  business  of  his  profession,  that  he  distrusted 
his  judgment,  that  he  regarded  the  administration 
of  remedies  for  the  cure  of  disease  as  at  best  a 
matter  of  chance,  that  while  the  nature  and  proper- 
ties of  medicines  could  be  determined,  it  was  diffi- 
cult— indeed,  impossible — to  know  the  effect  they 
would  have  upon  the  patient,  whose  internal  condi- 
tion could  never  be  satisfactorily  ascertained. 
Whether  it  be  true  or  not  that  these  considerations 
influenced  him  to  quit  the  practice  of  medicine, 
one  thing  is  certain,  he  did  quit  it,  after  a  few  years' 
practice,  and  never  again  resumed  it. 

Being  an  accomplished  chemist,  he  resolved  to 
turn  his  knowledge  to  account  in  a  practical  man- 
ner, and  commenced  the  manufacture  of  steel  in  a 
small  way,  from  which,  with  his  own  hands,  he 
made  razors  of  a  very  superior  quality,  known 
throughout  the  country  as  "  Dr.  King's  razors." 

Close  by  his  house  there  flowed  a  little  stream 
of  water,  now  known  as  "  Pickering's  run,"  and  on 
this  he  erected  a  shop  where  he  had  bellows,  anvil, 
vise,  etc.,  and  a  hammer  run  by  water-power.  He 
had  also  several  grindstones,  of  different  degrees 
of  fineness,  turned  in  the  same  way,  and  on  these 
his  razors  were  ground. 

Here  this  remarkable  man  passed  his  days  and 
earned  his  livelihood.  His  razors  were  sold  at  fifty 
cents  each — no  more,  no  less.  He  would  not  ac- 
cept more  than  that  under  any  circumstances — no 


DOCTOR    KING. 


135 


person  could  buy,  even  a  hundred  of  them,  at  a 
less  rate. 

He  would  take  a  piece  of  common  iron,  convert 
it  into  a  fine  quality  of  steel,  and  manufacture  it 
into  excellent  razors. 

He  lived  in  the  most  economical  manner,  being 
a  man  of  exceedingly  temperate  habits,  and  dress- 
ing himself  in  the  plainest  and  cheapest  style.  He 
usually  wore  a  plain,  coarse  muslin  shirt;  a  white, 
slouch  hat;  pants  of  homespun,  and  a  red  woolen 
"wammus"  or  roundabout.  When  away  from 
home  he  was  mostly  on  foot,  and  carried  with  him 
a  slender  steel  cane.  This  was  intended  as  a  warn- 
ing to  dogs  that  he  did  not  desire  to  enter  upon 
any  very  intimate  relations  with  them. 

But,  while  Doctor  King  had  retired  absolutely 
from  the  practice  of  medicine  as  a  business,  he 
found  it  extremely  difficult  to  avoid  visiting  the 
amilies  of  many  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances 
when  they  were  sick.  Many  had  such  unlimited 
faith  in  his  medical  skill  that  they  would  have  no 
other  physician  when  it  was  possible  to  obtain  him  ; 
the  entreaties  of  such  people,  in  case  of  sickness, 
he  found  impossible  to  refuse. 

On  such  occasions  they  would  come  prepared  to 
convey  him  to  their  homes  on  horseback,  or  in  a 
conveyance  of  some  description,  bringing  him  back 
when  the  visit  was  over. 

He  would  never  make  a  charge  for  these  visits, 
but  when  money  was  pressed  upon  him  in  return; 
for  such  services,  would  sometimes  accept  it,  al- 


136  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

ways  with  reluctance,  and,  probably,  only  because 
he  felt  its  need. 

This  peculiarity  of  the  doctor's  sometimes  in- 
duced very  miserly  persons  to  send  for  him,  hoping 
thereby  to  escape  the  cost  that  would  otherwise 
ensue.     One  instance  of  the  kind  was  thus  related  : 

A  farmer,  in  good  circumstances,  living  some 
two  or  three  miles  away,  had  a  fall,  which  injured 
him  considerably.  Becoming  alarmed,  he  sent  in 
haste  for  Doctor  King,  who  came  and  gave  him 
such  relief  as  was  in  his  power;  when  he  was  ready 
to  leave,  the  farmer  said: 

"Well,  doctor,  how  much  do  I  owe  thee  for  this 
visit  ?" 

"  Nothing — nothing  at  all ;  I  say,  not  anything," 
replied  the  doctor. 

"That'll  never  do,"  said  he,  "thee  can't  afford  t( 
lose  thy  time  for  nothing."  Then  directing  his  wife 
to  hand  his  purse,  he  carefully  selected  out  an  ol< 
Spanish  "levy,"  worth  twelve  and  a  half  cents,  an( 
handed  it  to  the  doctor,  who  put  it  in  his  pocket, 
as  was  his  habit,  without  looking  to  see  what  it 
was. 

One  of  the  doctor's  eccentricities  was  his  habit 
of  repeating  a  statement  and  prefacing  the  repeti- 
tion with  the  phrase,  "  I  say."  Sometimes  he  would 
repeat  this  several  times,  especially  when  laboring 
under  excitement.  Thus,  if  he  had  visited  some 
one  who  was  very  sick,  when  asked  concerning 
him,  would  say: 

"  He's  very  poorly — I  say,  I  think  he's  very  poor- 


DOCTOR    KING.  I37 

ly,"  then  pausing  a  moment  he  would  resume^  "  I 
say,  I  think  he  is." 

He  was  intensely  anti-slavery.  On  this  subject 
alone  was  he  known  manifest  anger  or  impatience, 
in  discussion  with  an  opponent.  Years  after,  when 
the  anti-slavery  agitation  swept  over  the  land,  and 
the  vials  of  pro-slavery  wrath  were  emptied  on  the 
heads  of  all  who  countenanced  ''abolitionism,"  he 
stood  firm  and  unshaken,  among  the  foremost  and 
most  radical  of  those  who  held  fast  to  the  doctrine 
that  all  men  were  entitled  to  "  life,  liberty  and  the 
pursuit  of  happiness." 

No  kinder  heart,  no  gentler,  purer  nature  ever 
came  from  the  Creator's  hand.  In  perfect  truth 
and  unswerving  honesty  the  world  has  probably 
seen  his  equal — never  his  superior. 

When  Billy  Brown  had  partaken  of  breakfast, 
the  morning  after  the  adventure  with  the  slave- 
catchers,  he  had  his  horse  brought  out  and  geared 
to  the  little  one-horse  dearborn,  in  which  he  and 
Margaret  usually  went  to  Friends'  meeting,  and 
started  off  to  Doctor  King's.  Arriving  at  a  point 
on  the  public  road  opposite  the  house,  he  hitched 
the  horse  to  the  fence  at  the  road-side,  and  pursued 
a  narrow  path  through  the  woods  that  led  to  the 
doctor's  residence. 

It  was  about  8  o'clock,  and,  as  he  neared  the  shop, 
he  heard  the  click  of  the  tilt-hammer,  which  told 
that  the  doctor  was  at  work.  Entering,  he  found 
him  drawing  out  a  piece  of .  steel  preparatory  to 
making  it  into  razors.     He  was  not  observed  for  a 


138  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

few  minutes,  and  as  our  readers  have,  perhaps,  a 
laudable  curiosity  to  learn  something  of  the  per- 
sonal appearance  of  this  remarkable  man,  who  vol- 
untarily abandoned  a  profession  in  which  he  might 
have  risen  to  eminence,  in  order  to  pursue  the 
humble  but  honorable  one  in  which  we  find  him 
engaged,  we  will  endeavor  to  gratify  them  so  far  as 
lies  in  our  power. 

As  has  already  been  stated,  he  was  about  forty 
years  of  age,  and  was  rather  under  the  medium 
height.  He  was  slightly  made  and  somewhat 
stooped;  possessing  but  a  moderate  degree  of  vi- 
tality. His  head  was  not  large,  but  well  propor- 
tioned, the  moral  and  perceptive  faculties  predomi- 
nating. His  eyes  were  gray  and  had  an  expression 
of  gentleness  and  kindness  rarely  equaled.  His 
features  were  prominent  and  inclined  to  sharpness, 
while  his  temperament  was  exceedingly  fine,  the 
mental  predominating.  Added  to  all,  there  was  an 
expression  of  beneficence  on  his  countenance  that 
could  not  fail  to  strike  the  eye  of  the  beholder. 

**  Good-morning,  doctor,"  said  Billy,  after  having 
stood  watchmg  him  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Good  morning,"  was  the  reply,  as  he  looked  in- 
quiringly at  the  visitor.  In  a  moment  he  stopped 
the  hammer,  laid  down  the  tongs  which  held  the 
steel,  and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  near  by." 

"  I've  come  after  thee  this  morning,  doctor,"  said 
Billy.  "We  have  a  sick  woman  at  our  house,  and 
would  like  thee  to  come  and  see  her.  I've  brought 
the  dearborn  to  take  thee  and  bring  thee  back." 


DOCTOR    KING.  1 39 

Here  the  doctor  became  nervous  and  fidgetty, 
got  up  and  walked  across  the  shop,  and  then  sat 
down  again.  "  Does  she  seem  to  be  bad ;  I  say,  does 
she  seem  to  be  much  unwell?" 

Billy  then  told,  as  briefly  as  possible,  the  story 
of  the  previous  night ;  the  flight  of  Mary,  her 
arrival  at  the  house  and  her  condition  afterward. 

Doctor  King  listened  with  intense  interest.  Sev- 
eral times  during  the  recital  he  arose  from 
his  seat,  walked  across  the  shop,  picked  up 
his  hammer  and  laid  it  down  again,  took  a  small 
paper  of  tobacco  from  his  pocket  and  put  into  his" 
mouth  a  piece  about  the  size  of  a  grain  of  wheat, 
and  after  chewing  it  a  moment  spit  it  out,  and  did 
many  other  things  w^hich  betrayed  excitement. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  story,  he  said: 

"I'll  go;  I  say,  I  think  I'll  go.  Come  up  to  the 
house  and  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

Billy  preferred  to  remain  at  the  shop  and  await 
the  doctor's  return.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was 
back,  carrying  in  one  hand  his  steel  cane;  and  the 
two  started  up  the  path  which  led  to  the  public 
road. 

On  the  way  the  doctor  asked  many  questions, 
and  by  the  time  they  arrived  at  Brown's  he  was  fa- 
miliar with  the  whole  history  of  John  and  Mary 
since  their  escape  into  Pennsylvania. 

When  they  arrived  they  entered  the  kitchen  and 
found  Margaret  and  Joe  Simmons.  The  boys,  who 
had  risen  late,  were  at  the  shop.  Neddy  had  not 
made  his  appearance,  and  John  remained  in  the 
garret,  preferring  to  stay  there  for  the  day.     Frank 


I40  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

and  Charlie  were  playing  about  the  kitchen  floor. 
The  doctor  immediately  inquired  for  Mary. 

Margaret  informed  him  that  she  had  grown 
quieter,  and  some  time  since  had  fallen  into  an  ap- 
parently sound  sleep.  "  It's  the  best  thing  that 
could  happen  her.  She  mustn't  be  disturbed.  Let 
her  sleep  as  long  as  she  will ;  the  woman  needs  sleep. 

Looking  at  Charlie,  he  inquired  if  that  was  the 
child  she  had  carried  in  her  flight  of  the  previous 
night,  and  on  being  answered  in  the  affirmative, 
broke  out: 

"  The  woman's  'a  heroine;  I  say,  she's  a  heroine  ; 
but  they  didn't  get  her;  I  say,  they  didn't  get  her; 
ha!  ha!  ha!  they  must  have  been  disappointed;  I 
say,  I  think  they  were  badly  disappointed;"  and  he 
laughed  merrily  over  the  discomfiture  of  the  slave- 
catchers. 

Margaret  offered  to  go  into  the  room  and  see  if 
Mary  was  still  sleeping,  but  the  doctor  admonished 
her  that  she  might  disturb  her,  saying  that  she 
would  no  doubt  make  herself  heard  when  she 
awoke.  Sleep,  he  said,  was  the  great  remedy  for 
the  nervous  excitement  she  had  suffered;  it  was 
better  than  all  the  medicine  in  the  world. 

The  doctor  was  then  asked  to  stay  for  dinner. 
As  Mary  might  not  awaken  for  some  time  he  con- 
sented, and  with  Joe  Simmons  and  Billy  walked  out 
on  the  porch  and  sat  down.  The  day  was  exceed- 
ingly fine  and  he  felt  in  good  spirits,  exulting 
greatly  over  the  escape  of  the  runaways  from  the 
clutches  of  the  kidnappers.  He  was  especially 
emphatic  in  praise  of  Davy  McCann. 


DOCxbR   KING.  141 

"They  say  a  colored  man  ain't  equal  to  a  white 
man,  but  Davy  can  outwit  the  whole  of  them ;  I 
say,  he  can  outwit  them  all  all.  Then  there's 
Bristow  Wilson,  he's  as  black  as  a  crow,  but  we 
have  no  better  man;  everybody  trusts  him,  and  he's 
a  man  of  ability;  I  say,  he's  a  man  of  great 
ability.  It's  not  in  the  color ;  I  say,  it's  not  the 
color  that  makes  the  man." 

He  then  went  into  a  history  of  the  Constitution 
of  the  United  States,  reciting  many  of  the  clauses 
of  that  instrument,  and  contending  that  slavery  was 
illegal  and  ought  to  be  immediately  abolished.  He 
was  familiar  with  the  early  history  of  the  country, 
and  held  views  concerning  the  unconstitutionality 
of  slavery  similar  to  those  advocated  years  after- 
ward by  leading  anti-slavery  men. 

Margaret,  in  the  meantime,  was  making  prepara- 
tions for  dinner.  She  had  killed  a  couple  of  chick- 
ens and  was  cooking  them.  Knowing  that  the 
doctor,  who  ate  little,  was  very  fond  of  good 
coffee,  she  prepared  some  of  that  in  her  best  style. 

When  dinner  was  nearly  ready,  she  heard  a  voice 
in  the  parlor,  and  entering,  found  Mary  awake. 

"Where's  Charlie?"  said  the  woman. 

"  Charlie's  here,"  said  Margaret,  cheerily ;  "come, 
Charlie,  mother  wants  him,"  and  the  little  fellow 
came  running  in  and  nestled  down  close  beside 
her. 

"The  doctor's  here,  Mary,"  said  Margaret.  "I'll 
bring  him  in,"  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
she  stepped  out  quickly  and  informed  him  that  his 
patient  was  awake. 


142  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Doctor  King  laid  aside  his  steel  cane  and  walked 
softly  into  the  parlor.  The  room  had  been  dark- 
ened and  Margaret  raised  the  curtains  that  he  might 
have  sufficient  light.  Taking  a  chair,  he  seated 
himself  at  the  bedside  and  looked  on  for  some 
time  in  silence.  Mary  did  not  appear  to  notice 
anything  except  the  little  boy  at  her  side.  Her 
face  rested  against  his,  and  her  dark,  earnest  eye 
glowed  with  intense  feeling.  The  doctor's  kind, 
artless  face  was  radiant  with  the  unaffected  good- 
ness that  stirred  his  inmost  h<»art.  More  than  once 
he  brushed  away  a  tear  that  had  started  down  his 
cheek,  and  did  not  for  a  time  trust  himself  to  speak. 
At  length  he  said  very  gently:  **  Hold  out  her  hand 
and  let  me  feel  her  pulse." 

After  examining  it,  he   turned  to  Margaret  and, 
remarked : 

"  She  only  needs  a  little  rest,  there's  nothing  se- 
rious the  matter.  Her  nervous  system  has  received 
a  severe  shock,  but  she'll  soon  recover.  I  wouldn't 
give  her  any  medicine;  I  say,  I  think  I  wouldn't 
give  her  any.  Maybe  she  would  eat  something.'' 
"Mary,  will  thee  have  a  piece  of  chicken?"  in-j 
quired  Margaret. 

''  Yes,  Missus,  I'll  take  a  little  piece." 
So  a  piece  of  chicken  was  brought,  and   some 
bread.     The  doctor  suggested  a   cup  of  coffee,  a 
beverage  in  which  he  had  great  faith. 

Mary  ate  the  food   and  drank  the  coffee  with  a 
good  relish.  The  doctor  watched  her  closely  and  said : 
**Let  her  have  another  good   sleep   and  she'll  be 
well;  I  say,  I  think  she'll  be  quite  well" 


DOCTOR    KING.  I 43 

The  family  were  then  called  to  dinner,  and  did 
ample  justice  to  it.  When  it  was  over  the  doctor 
intimated  that  he  must  leave,  and  the  boys  were 
instructed  to  gear  up  the  team  to  convey  him 
back. 

Before  he  started  he  remarked  that  the  woman 
should  be  moved  away  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
would  be  able  to  go  by  the  next  evening  if  nothing 
unusual  happened  to  her.  She  ought  not,  he  said, 
to  remain  here.  Another  fright  might  result  much 
more  seriously. 

When  they  were  ready  to  go,  Billy  said: 

"Doctor,  how  much  do  we  owe  thee  for  this 
visit?" 

"Nothing  at  all;  I  say,  nothing  at  all.  I  wouldn't 
receive  anything  for  this ;  I  say,  I  wouldn't  receive 
a  cent  for  it." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  that  admitted  of  no  fur- 
ther controversy. 

"  Well,  if  thee  won't  take  anything  for  this,  we 
owe  thee  for  coming  here  before ;  take  this,"  said 
he,  placing  some  silver  coin   in  the  doctor's  hand. 

He  looked  embarrassed,  but  put  the  money  in 
his  pocket  without  examining  it. 

"Is  that  right?"  said  Billy. 

"Yes,  it's  right;  I  say,  it's  all  right." 

"  But  thee  don't  look  at  it.  Thee  can't  tell  whether 
it's  all  right  or  not." 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  all  right,  I  know  by  the  feel  of  it; 
I  say,  I  know  by  the  feel  of  it." 

All  present  smiled.  The  doctor  looked  about 
nervously,  and  seemed  impatient  to  be  off. 


T44  JOHJ^    AND    MARY. 

It  was  now  announced  that  the  horse  and  dear- 
born were  at  the  door,  and  with  a  cheerful  farewell 
and  the  silent  blessing  of  the  whole  family  the  doc- 
tor departed. 

When  he  was  gone  Joe  Simmons  said : 

**  There  izzent  a  better  man  than  that  enny- 
where." 

"No,"  said  Margaret,  "there  ain't  many  Doctor 
Kings  in  the  world." 

"If  he  don't  get  to  heaven,  Peggy,"  continued 
Joe,  "there  won't  be  much  chance  for  enny  of  the 
rest  of  us  to  slip  in." 

Margaret'3  face  grew  serious.  This  was  treating 
sacred  subjects  a  little  lightly,  but  she  replied: 

"Indeed,  I  hope  everybody  will  prepare  them- 
selves for  that  place.  It's  awful  to  think  of  enny 
one  bein'  lost." 

"How  about  Sam  Doan?"  said  Joe,  laughing. 

This  was  rather  a  poser.  If  Margaret  hated  any 
living  creature  it  was  Sam.  Besides,  his  late  ac- 
tions had  made  him  more  odious  than  ever;  still 
she  said : 

"Even  Sam  Doan  might  get  forgiveness  if  he 
would  ask  it  sincerely.     I  hope  he  will." 

"Would  you  take  him  into  Friends'  meetin'?" 
said  Joe. 

This  was  rather  too  much;  the  idea  of  having 
Such  a  fellow  a  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends 
was  so  ludicrous  that  both  laughed  heartily. 

"I  think  the  darkeys  '11  give  him  a  'baptism  of 
fire'  or  sumlhin  akin  to  it,  afore  long,  that  '11  do 
him  more    good  than   jin^n   meetin',  and '11   be  a 


DOCTOR    KING.  1 45 

good  'eal  likelier  to  make  him  repent,"  pursued 
Joe. 

Margaret  was  silent.  Her  principles  and  those 
of  the  Society  forbade  anything  like  violence;  but 
there  was  something  in  the  present  case  that  made 
it  feel  different  to  her  from  any  one  she  had  ever 
met  with.  She  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  con- 
demn the  employment  of  force  under  present  cir- 
cumstances. 

Joe's  prediction  proved  correct.  The  next  morn- 
ing the  cabin  on  Sam's  coaling  ground  was  found 
burnt  to  the  ground.  A  short  distance  away  he 
was  discovered  lying  helpless,  beaten  almost  to 
death.  During  the  night  a  gang  of  blacks  had  vis- 
ited the  place,  and,  infuriated  by  his  treachery,  had 
taxen  summary  vengeance  upon  him.  Except  for 
the  interference  of  one  or  two,  more  thoughtful  and 
humane  than  the  rest,  he  would  have  been  murder- 
ed outright.  As  it  was,  he  barely  escaped  with  his 
life.  Some  humane  persons  near  the  place  cared 
for  him,  and  he  eventually  recovered,  but  left  the 
neighborhood  never  to  return.  The  perpetrators 
of  the  act  kept  their  secret  and  were  never  discov- 
ered. 

Davy  McCann  came  to  Brown's  on  the  evening 
after  Doctor  King's  visit.  He  had  heard  of  Mary's 
arrival  there  and  was  glad  to  learn  that  she  was 
much  better.  After  resting  through  the  afternoon 
and  drinking  a  cup  of  strong  coffee,  she  seemed 
about  as  well  as  ever.  Davy  had  found  the  shawl 
which  Grandfather  Carter  had  presented  her  and 
gave  it  to  her.  She  had  lost  it  in  her  flight  of  the 
7 


146  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

night  before,  and  though  somewhat  torn,  it  could  be 
easily  mended  so  that  it  was  but  Httle  the  worse- 
He  had  been  gathering  information  respecting  the 
slave-hunters,  and  found  that  when  they  reached 
Conowingo,  on  their  return,  they  became  very  in- 
dignant. They  swore  vengeance  against  any  one 
from  that  neighborhood  who  should  ever  cross  the 
river,  should  they  know  it.  They  also  threatened 
to  return  in  a  few  days,  but  this  he  did  not  believe. 
Still  he  thought  it  best  that  the  fugitives  should 
leave  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  and  regarded 
Doctor  King's  rdvlce  as  good.  He  told  Mary  to 
be  ready  the  next  evening  and  he  would  be  there 
to  convey  them  away.  Billy  offered  to  take  them 
some  distance  in  the  dearborn,  but  this  offer  vvas 
positively  declined.  Davy  preferred  to  travel  on 
foot  for  many  reasons  .  It  wa^  safer ;  they  were  not 
so  likely  to  attract  attention  ;  concealment  was 
easier,  and  he  was  used  to  it.  He  knew  all  the  bye- 
paths  and  short  cuts,  that  could  only  be  traveled 
on  foot,  and  he  could  not  think  of  going  in  any 
other  way. 

The  next  day  Grandfather  Carter  called.  He 
knew  all  about  what  had  occurred,  and  approved 
of  the  intended  movement.  He  told  Mary  not  to 
be  afraid.  Davy  had  never  yet  had  a  slave  cap- 
tured when  under  his  charge,  and  would  be  sure  to 
take  them  to  a  place  of  safety.  With  this  assur- 
ance he  placed  a  few  pieces  of  silver  in  her  hand 
and  turned  to  leave. 

"Oh!  thank  ye,  mass'r,  thank  ye,"  said  the  wo 
man,  and  bur  it  into  tears. 


DOCTOR   KING.  1 47 

"  Don't  call  me  master,"  said  the  old  man  sternly, 
"  there  is  but  one  to  be  called  Master,  and  that's 
the  Maker  of  us  all." 

Mary  looked  bewildered,  but  said  nothing.  He 
bade  a  kind  farewell  and  departed. 

In  the  evening,  shortly  after  dark,  Davy  made  his 
appearance.  John  and  Mary  were  seated  by  the 
kitchen  fire,  around  which  sat  the  rest  of  the  family. 
They  were  prepared  to  move,  and  Davy  would  not 
even  take  a  seat.  He  stood  by  the  fire  a  few  min- 
utes, evidently  somewhat  excited.  His  mouth  was 
filled  with  tobacco,  which  he  masticated  with  all 
his  wonted  energy,  while  his  eyes  fairly  blazed  with 
intense  feeling.  He  was  evidently  fully  aroused  and 
ready  for  whatever  em.ergency  might  occur.  He 
said  nothing  about  his  proposed  destination,  but 
simply  remarked  that  they  would  travel  all  night, 
and  lay  by  in  day  time.  He  was  acquainted  with 
plenty  of  stopping-places  that  were  perfectly  safe. 

Davy  had  provided  himself  with  a  small  flask  of 
whisky,  to  be  used  in  an  emergency,  in  case  of  exces- 
sive fatigue  or  exposure,  and  Margaret  thought  that 
if  they  traveled  all  night  they  should  have  something 
with  them  to  eat.  She  therefore  made  up  a  little 
roll  of  provisions  wrapped  in  a  newspaper,  and  tied 
them  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief,  which  she  hand- 
ed to  Davy.     They  were  then  ready  to  leave. 

The  night  was  as  bright  and  beautiful  as  though 
Nature  had  designed  it  especially  for  the  benefit  of 
the  wanderers.  The  moon  was  in  its  first  quarter, 
but  poured  forth  a  flood  of  mellow  light,  while  the 
steady,  silent  stars  beamed  down  a  God-speed  to 


148 


JOHN    AND    MARY. 


the  escaping  bondmen.  Out  into  this  lovely  autumn 
night — out  into  the  wide,  wide  world  :  hope,  free- 
dom and  happiness  beckoning  them  on  ;  slavery, 
terror  and  despair  behind — they  go.  He  who  tern 
pers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  will  protect  them. 
Joe  Simmons  remained  till  they  were  gone. 
While  they  were  making  ready  to  start  he  did  not 
utter  a  word.  His  heart  was  tender  as  a  child's, 
and  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  When 
they  were  fairly  off,  he  took  up  his  gun  and  started 
for  home.  Davy  returned  in  a  few  days  and  said 
the  fugitives  were  safe.  He  gave  no  further  infor- 
mation, nor  did  any  one  venture  to  ask  it. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


TIMES  CHANGES. 

"  The  years  are  viewless  angels. 
That  still  go  gliding  by, 
And  bear  each  one  a  record  up 
To  Him  who  sits  on  high." 

We  take  a  long  stride  forward.  Thirty-five 
years,  half  the  time  allotted  to  human  existence, 
have  passed  away.  Most  of  those  who  figured 
in  the  events  we  have  been  recording  have 
crossed  over  the  dark  river,  on  that  voyage  from 
which  none  have  been  known  to  return.  In  the 
neighborhood  where  John  and  Mary  were  shel- 
tered and  rescued,  a  new  generation  has  grown  up 
that  remembers  them  not.  The  Octorara  glides 
onward  as  sweetly  and  peacefully  as  ever ;  in 
spring-time  the  birds  fill  the  deep  woods  with  their 
strange,  sweet  music  as  of  yore,  while  the  grandeur 
of  autumn,  as  as  she  sits  enthroned  on  the  forest- 
crowned  hills,  is  as  enchanting  as  in  days  gone  by  ; 
but  those  who  have  been  looking  with  us  on  these 
scenes  will  see  them  no  more  forever. 

Davy  McCann  rests  in  his  humble  grave,  not  far 
from  where  stood  the  house  in  which  the  later 
years  of  his  life  were  passed.  In  an  open  common, 
near  the  public  road,  two  stones,  unhewn,  unlet- 
tered, mark  his  resting-place.  Around  are  the 
graves  of  a  few  of  his  own  race — whose  youth, 
like  his,  was  passed  in  bondage.  Here,  among 
those  to  whom  his  last  efforts  were  given,  the  hero 
149 


150  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

reposes.  No  funeral  pageant  followed  him  to  his 
long  home.  The  rich  and  powerful  cared  not  that 
the  brave  old  man  was  dead.  A  few  of  his  own 
color  and  some  kind  neighbors,  who  knew  his 
humble  worth,  stood  at  the  open  grave.  None 
others  were  there. 

Away  in  the  land  where  mothers  and  their  babes 
were  sold  at  auction,  where  the  clank  of  the  slave- 
drivers  chain  and  his  hoarse  and  brutal  curses 
mingled  with  the  despairing  shrieks  of  his^helpless 
victims,  there  was  rejoicing.  The  brave  old  heart 
and  cunning  brain  that  had  so  often  baffled  their 
schemes  were  still  in  death.  The  slave-hunter  felt 
that  the  trembling  fugitive  could  no  longer  be 
guided  by  that  master-spirit  in  eluding  his  grasp. 

But  on  the  green  hills  and  in  the  fertile  valleys 
of  the  Keystone,  where  were  hidden  in  quiet  nooks 
and  secluded  haunts  the  scarred  and  hunted  bond- 
men, there  were  sad  and  heavy  hearts.  Slave- 
mothers  wept  as  they  clasped  their  babes  more 
closely  to  their  bosoms  and  remembered  that  the 
tried  and  faithful  friend,  whose  rare  skill  and  un- 
failing courage  had  so  often  delivered  them  from 
the  clutches  of  the  relentless  kidnapper,  had  gene 
forever  from  their  sight. 

Not  forever ;  for  when  the  heavens  are  rolled  to- 
gether as  a  scroll,  and  the  oppressor  stands  with 
the  oppressed  before  flim  who  knows  the  inmost 
secrets  of  the  heart,  and  the  promised  words  are 
spoken  :  "  Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least  of 
one  of  these,  my  brethren,  ye  did  it  unto  me," 
among  the  throng  of  the  redeemed  will  stand  that 


r 


TIME  S    CHANGES. 


151 


unfailing,  constant  and  unwearied  friend,  whose  life 
was  worn  out  in  the  service  of  the  poorest  and 
most  helpless  of  God's  creatures. 

Grandfather  Carter  lies  buried  in  the  humble  lit- 
tle grave-yard  at  Eastland.  At  a  ripe  old  age,  in 
possession  of  all  his  faculties,  he  passed  away. 
Stern  and  unyielding  in  his  convictions,  he  re- 
mained so  to  his  dying  hour.  He  had  always  felt 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  maintain  a  testimony  against 
doctors,  lawyers  and  clergymen.  In  his  last  illness 
friends  and  relatives  besought  him  to  send  for  a 
physician.  "  No,"  said  the  stern  old  man,  "  I  want 
to  die  a  natural  death,"  and  persisted  in  his  refusal 
to  the  end. 

No  stone  marks  the  spot  where  his  ashes  repose. 
No  inscription  on  marble  column  tells  his  virtues 
to  the  passing  multitude  ;  but  in  the  memories  of 
those  who  knew  him  well,  his  sterling  integrity, 
unvarnished  but  genuine  kindness,  and  great  worth, 
will  live  while  life  endures. 

In  the  same  enclosure  are  the  graves  of  Neddy 
Johnson  and  Bristow  Wilson.  Formed  by  nature 
for  leaders  among  men,  circumstances  placed  them 
in  a  limited  sphere  of  action.  With  possibilities  of 
greatness  the  opportunities  for  distinction  did  not 
come  to  them,  but  the  work  their  hands  found  to  do 
was  well  and  fitly  performed.  Had  they  belonged 
to  a  later  generation  the  possibility  might  have  be- 
come a  reality ;  yet  their  real  worth  is  the  same. 

The  Brown  family  are  scattered.  Around  the 
hearthstone  no  familiar  faces  gather.  At  the  old 
kitchen  fire-place,  where  John  and  Maiy  sat  in  the 


152  JOHN    AND    MARY.- 

fire-light,  only  stranger  faces  can  be  seen,  Billy 
and  Margaret  have  made  their  last  journey  to  East- 
land. In  the  plain  little  meeting-house,  the  places 
that  knew  them  so  long  and  well,  shall  know  them 
no  more  forever.  At  a  ripe  old  age,  death,  the  great 
harvester,  gathered  them  into  his  garner.  Their 
walk  in  life  was  humble  and  not  thornless,  but  the 
reward  of  the  good  and  just  is  theirs. 

Doctor  King  makes  razors  no  more,  but  the  re- 
membrance of  his  singular  modesty,  his  unaffected 
kindness,  his  sterling  honesty  and  wonderful  purity 
of  heart,  still  lives  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew 
and  understood  his  character. 

Far  away  in  the  valley  of  Salt  Lake  Joe  Sim- 
mons sleeps  the  sleep  that  knows  no  waking. 
Strange  and  unaccountable  as  it  may  seem,  late  in  life 
he  became  a  convert  to  Mormonism.  He  who  hadi 
long  rejected  as  unsound  the  truths  of  Revelation, 
as  understood  by  Christians,  was  led  into  the  mazes] 
of  superstition  by  the  cunning  devices  of  the  agents 
of  that  sect,  and  followed  them  to  Utah.  He  never 
adopted  the  practice  of  Polygamy,  but  died 
bachelor,  after  residing  there  for  many  years. 

But  great  events  have  transpired.  The  storm' 
that  for  years  was  gathering,  amidst  an  agitation] 
rarely  equaled  for  intensity,  burst  with  unequaledj 
fury.  Over  the  land  it  swept — a  hurricane  of  deatl 
and  suffering  such  as  the  world  has  seldom  seen.1 
When  at  last  its  fury  was  spent,  and  the  gentle  sun-j 
shine  of  Peace  beamed  through  the  broken  war- 
clouds,  the  accursed  institution  of  negro  slavery] 
was  no  more.     Civilizatioi)  rejoiced,  and  casting  the] 


TIME  S    CHANGES.  I53 

slave-whip,  and  fetters  into  the  dark  and  bloody  ocean 
of  the  Past,  sang  hosannas  to  Liberty  and  Peace. 

We  write  not  the  history  of  this  wonderful 
period,  but  only  trace  the  path  of  individuals  to 
whom  its  realities  were  stranger  than  the  most 
startling  pages  of  romance. 

No  one  has  forgotten  how  slowly  and  almost  im- 
perceptibly the  people,  the  press  and  the  Govern- 
ment reached  the  conclusion  to  arm  the  negroes  in 
defense  of  the  Union. 

At  first  the  idea  was  repugnant  to  a  large  ma- 
jority of  the  people,  but  repeated  failures,  hope  de- 
ferred and  unyielding  necessity  brought  about  the 
result  at  last.  When  active  hostilities  ceased 
and  the  mustering  out  of  the  Union  forces  com- 
menced, in  the  summer  of  1865,  quite  a  number  of 
colored  troops  were  in  the  army,  many  of  whom 
had  rendered  valuable  and  important  service  to  the 
country. 

For  some  time  after  the  reduction  of  the  army 
commenced,  these  troops  were  stationed  in  various 
sections  of  the  extreme  Southern  States.  It  was 
supposed  to  be  necessary  to  retain  a  considerable 
military  force  for  some  time  in  that  section,  and 
the  negro  troops  were  thought  better  adapted  to  the 
climate  than  the  whites. 

One  of  the  finest  regiments  in  the  volunteer  ser- 
vice was  the  33rd  U.  S.  Colored  Troops.  It  was 
indeed  a  splendid  body  of  men,  mainly  recruited 
in  the  North.  Pennsylvania  furnished  several  com- 
panies, recruited  from  Lancaster,  Chester,  Phila- 
delphia and  adjoining  counties. 


154  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

At  the  conclusion  of  active  service  this  regiment 
was  assigned  to  duty  in  the  department  of  Florida, 
then  under  command  of  Major-General  John  New- 
ton. 

General  Newton,  who  was  an  officer  of  the  regu- 
lar army  and  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  declared 
that  there  was  no  better  regiment  in  the  service. 
It  was  under  most  excellent  discipline,  the  men  obe- 
dient, soldierly  and  prompt  in  the  execution  of 
every  order.  The  non-commissioned  officers  were 
superior  men — intelligent,  dignified  and  proud  of 
their  profession. 

They  were  scattered  about  in  small  detachments, 
at  various  posts,  throughout  the  State — Tallahasse, 
Jacksonville,  Mellonville,  Palatka,  Gainesville,  Fer- 
nandina  and  St.  Augustine. 

But  in  the  course  of  a  few  months  it  was  thought 
unnecessary  to  retain  more  than  the  regular  troops 
in  the  service,  and  the  muster  out  of  the  colored 
regiments  began. 

Late  in  the  fall  the  33rd  were  collected  at  Jack- 
sonville, from  their  various  posts,  and  mustered  out 
of  the  service  of  the  United  States.  Most  of  them 
took  passage  from  that  port  to  their  northern 
homes  ;  but  some,  charmed  with  the  glorious  win- 
ter climate  of  Florida,  determined  to  remain  there 
until  spring.  Among  these  was  Sergeant  Evans, 
a  non-commissioned  officer  who  had  enlisted  from 
Pennsylvania.  He  had  acquired  an  excellent  repu- 
tation in  the  company  with  which  he  had  served, 
and  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  obtaining  a  re- 
commendation from   the  officers  of  the  command. 


TIME  S   CHANGES. 


155 


With  two  of  his  dusky  companions-in-arms  he 
looked  around  for  employment,  and  at  length  made 
application  to  the  quartermaster  at  that  post,  who 
had  a  large  number  of  men  employed  in  govern- 
ment service. 

His  application  was  successful,  and  for  some 
wrecks  he  was  engaged,  with  his  comrades,  in  per- 
forming the  not  very  arduous  duties  allotted  him. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


KU-KLUX. 

"  Cruel  of  heart  and  strong  of  arm. 

Loud  in  his  sport  and  keen  for  spoil, 
He  little  reck'd  of  good  or  harm, 
Fierce  both  in  mirth  and  toil  ; 
Yet  like  a  dog  could  fawn,  if  need  there  were  ; 
Speak  mildly,  when  he  would,  or  look  in  tear." 

Florida  had  many  charms  for  the  negro  race,  es- 
pecially for  those  who  had  been  raised  in  the  North. 
Its  genial  and  lovely  climate,  which  during  the 
winter  months,  resembled  May  or  early  June  in  the 
Northern  States,  seemed  an  earthly  paradise.  In- 
stead of  the  bitter  and  piercing  cold,  the  driving 
snow  and  the  long  dreary  winters  of  our  inhospita- 
ble climate,  they  had  almost  cloudless  skies,  a 
temperature  that  rarely  produced  frost,  and  balmy 
breezes  freighted  with  rich  odors  from  tropical 
flowers  of  unfading  beauty.  Added  to  these 
charms,  the  forests  produced  abundance  of  game, 
while  the  rivers  teemed  with  excellent  varieties  of 
fish.  To  the  dusky  race  these  were^  inducements 
that  under  ordinary  circumstances  could  scarcely 
be  resisted. 

But  there  were  serious  drawbacks.  To  under- 
stand these  we  must  glance  at  the  condition  of  af- 
fairs before  and  after  the  close  of  actual  hostilities 
between  the  Union  and  rebel  forces. 

This  State  was  inhabited,  before   the  breaking 
out  of  the  rebellion,  to  a   great  extent  by  outlaws. 
Flying  from  the  administration  of  justice  inadjoin- 
156 


KU-KLUX.  157 

ing  States,  they  sought  refuge  in  this  thinly-settled 
country,  where  means  of  concealment  were  ample 
and  successful  pursuit  almost  impossible.  When 
the  war  broke  out  their  natural  impulses  led  them 
to  join  the  rebel  forces,  which  they  did  mostly  as 
cavalry,  forming  a  kind  of  irregular  force,  such  as 
infested  Virginia  under  Mosby  and  other  partisan 
leaders. 

When  the  war  closed  these  bands  of  guerrillas 
were  less  than  ever  disposed  to  adopt  the  pursuits 
of  civilized  life.  They  had  never  been  accustomed 
to  labor ;  and  now,  while  the  necessity  for  doing 
so  had  been  multiplied  in  consequence  of  their 
former  slaves  obtaining  their  freedom,  their  reckless- 
ness had  been  much  increased  by  the  circumstances 
surrounding  them  during  the  progress  of  the    war. 

But  for  some  time  after  the  close  of  hostilities 
they  made  no  marked  demonstrations  in  the  way 
of  disturbing  the  public  peace,  or  defying  the  laws 
of  the  land.  In  truth,  the  South  was  completely 
subdued.  When  Lee  surrendered  to  Grant,  there 
were  but  few,  throughout  the  rebel  States,  who 
would  not  have  accepted  life  and  property  as  the 
sole  condition  of  entire  submission  to  the  Govern- 
ment, and  continued  obedience  to  the  laws.  They 
felt  that  in  receiving  liberty  and  life  they  had  all 
they  were  entitled  to,  and  really  more  than  they 
deserved. 

But  soon  a  reaction  set  in,  and   a   different  state 

of  feeling  began  to  manifest  itself     This  was  greatly 

assisted  by  the  course  of  the  administration  which 

succeeded  that  of  the  lamented  Lincoln.  The  symp- 

7* 


158  JOHN    AND    MARY 

toms  of  sympathy  manifested  by  it  toward  the  late 
rebels,  contributed  largely  to  hasten  and  strengthen 
the  reaction  which  followed  the  first  feeling  of  un- 
conditional submission,  and  is  responsible  for  much 
of  the  mischief  that  it  occasioned. 

In  Florida  the  reaction  manifested  its  most  ma- 
lignant forms  in  an  utter  disregard  for  the  rights  of 
the  negro,  and  the  few  original  Union  men  who 
were  scattered  through  the  State.  Men,  who  be- 
fore the  war  had  been  peaceable  citizens,  did  not 
engage  in  personal  violence  against  these  classes, 
but  winked  at  it  in  those  who  did.  Personal  injury 
to  a  Union  man  or  a  negro  was  rarely,  if  ever,  pun- 
ished by  the  civil  law,  and  to  evade  its  execution 
the  most  shameless  devices  were  resorted  to.  This 
was  excused  by  intelligent  and  apparently  respecta- 
ble citizens  on  the  plea  that  their  constitutional 
rights  had  been  trampled  upon. 

This  violent  feeling  never  showed  itself  toward 
United  States  troops.  They  were  treated  always 
with  outward  respect.  Officers,  however  obnox- 
ious, if  clothed  in  Federal  uniform,  were  safe  from 
insult  or  violence.  So  much  of  the  lesson  of  the 
war  they  were  not  disposed  to  unlearn. 

Early  in  the  winter  of  1865-6,  General  Newton 
was  relieved  from  the  command  of  the  District  of 
Florida,  and  Col.  John  T.  Sprague,  7th  U.  S.  In- 
fantry, took  his  place.  The  volunteer  forces  were 
mustered  out  of  service  and  regular  troops  placed 
in  their  stead.  Many  of  the  officers  were  young 
men  who  had  seen  no  actual  service  in  the  field, 
and  had  but  a  dim   conception  of  the  real  purpose 


i 


KU-KLUX.  159 

and  scope  of  the  conflict  just  closed.  Fresh  from 
West  Point,  where  they  had  imbibed  notions  at 
war  with  the  true  spirit  of  democracy,  their  sym- 
pathies were  with  the  aristocracy  which  had  been 
overthrown  by  the  war,  and  against  the  negroes 
and  Union  men  of  the  South. 

Some  of  them  did  not  hesitate  to  express  openly 
their  opinion  that  the  war  on  the  part  of  the  gov 
ernment  had  been  clearly  wrong,  that  negro  slavery 
was  a  good  institution  and  should  not  have  been 
disturbed,  and  that  the  late  rebels  were  an  oppressed 
and  sorely-abused  people. 

These  officers,  commanding  posts  where  the  op- 
portunities for  social  intercourse  were  quite  limited, 
naturally  sought  out  those  whose  tastes,  culture 
and  habits  sympathized  with  their  own,  and  by  this 
means  their  inclination  to  take  part  with  them  was 
strengthened  and  intensified. 

Col.  Sprague,  whose  head-quarters  were  at  Jack- 
sonville, was  an  old  officer  of  the  regular  army,  but 
one  who  understood  his  duty  and  generally  per- 
formed it  in  good  faith.  His  orders  to  his  subor- 
dinates were  of  the  right  character,  but  they  were 
seldom  carried  out  in  their  true  spirit. 

Early  in  December,  the  officer  in  charge  of  the 
quartermaster's  department  received  notice  that  he 
would  soon  be  required  to  discharge  all  civilian 
employees  whose  places  could  be  filled  by  enlisted 
men.  This  was  done  in  pursuance  of  the  policy  of 
economy  which  had  been  adopted  by  the  Govern- 
ment. 

He  accordingly  notified  those  in  his  employ  to 


l6o  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

this  effect,  among  them  Sergeant  Evans  and  his  two 
comrades,who  had  been  on  duty  there  for  a  few  weeks. 

They  began  to  look  about  for  something  to  do 
until  spring,  when  the  order  for  their  discharge 
should  come. 

One  bright  sunshiny  afternoon,  as  the  employees 
of  the  quartermaster's  department  were  standing 
in  front  of  the  building  in  which  the  Government 
stores  were  kept,  in  the  main  street  of  Jacksonville, 
they  observed  a  negro  crossing  the  street  about 
fifty  yards  farther  up  the  river.  As  he  walked 
across  the  street,  he  was  met  by  a  white  man,  who 
lived  a  short  distance  out  of  the  town.  As  he 
passed  the  negro,  the  latter  spoke  ;  but  just  at  that 
moment  something  bright  gleamed  in  the  sunlight, 
the  black  man  fell,  and  his  assailant  ran  about  a 
hundred  yards,  when  he  was  overtaken  and  brought 
back.  A  crowd  collected  around  the  fallen  man, 
among  them  the  surgeon  of  the  post,  but  no  aid' 
could  be  rendered.  He  died  almost  instantly,  his 
throat  being  cut  and  the  jugular  vein  severed  by  a 
knife  in  the  hands  of  his  assailant.  The  latter  was 
taken  before  a  civil  officer  and  committed  to  prison. 

Now,  it  is  not  singular  that  an  offense  of  this] 
kind  should  be  committed.  Such  a  thing  might 
occur  in  almost  any  community ;  but  the  manner] 
in  which  it  was  looked  upon  by  the  civil  authorities 
is  the  remarkable  part  of  the  affair.  At  that  timei 
the  authorities  at  Washington  had  directed  military] 
commandants  not  to  interfere  or  take  charge  of 
cases  of  lawlessness,  except  where  the  civil  power! 
refused  or  neglected  to  do  it. 


KU-KLUX.  l6l 

In  this  case  the  proof  of  guilt  was  clear  and  un- 
questionable. The  man  had  been  seen  to  strike 
the  blow  by,  perhaps,  fifty  people,  in  broad  day- 
light, in  a  public  street.  It  was  unprovoked,  for 
the  negro,  as  appeared  in  the  evidence,  had  merely 
spoken  to  him,  without  apparently  intending  any 
insult.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  identity  of 
the  guilty  party,  for  some  who  had  seen  him  do  the 
act  had  not  lost  sight  of  him  until  brought  back, 
his  hands  and  clothing  smeared  with  blood. 

The  civil  government  of  Jacksonville  summoned 
,a  coroner's  jury,  composed  of  citizens  of  the  place, 
ind  the  facts  were  laid  before  th^m.     What  do  you 
suppose,  reader,  was  their  verdict  ? 

It  was  this  :  "  That  deceased  came  to  his  death 
ffrom  causes  unknown." 

This  may  seem  incredible,  but  it  is  a  stubborn  and 
unvarnished  fact.  It  serves  to  show  what  depths  of 
degradation  apparently  respectable  men  had  reach- 
ed, through  the  demoralizing  influence  of  slavery. 

When  Col.  Sprague  heard  of  this  he  felt  out- 
raged, and  immediately  notified  the  parties  con- 
cerned that  if  the  criminal  was  not  punished  the 
case  would  be  taken  up  by  the  military  authorities. 
Accordingly  he  was  re-arrested  and  committed  to 
prison  ;  but  the  case  dragged  along  so  slowly  that 
the  commandant  was  convinced  tha.  there  was  no 
intention  to  punish  the  criminal.  Accordingly,  he 
took  charge  of  the  case,  and  had  the  murderer 
tried  by  a  military  commission.  He  was  found 
guilty  and  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life  on 
the  Dry  Tortugas. 


1 62  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Some  time  after  this  affair  occurred,  Sergeant 
Evans  informed  Captain  Brown,  the  officer  by 
whom  he  had  been  employed,  that  he  and  his  two 
companions  had  obtained  a  situation,  and  as  soon 
as  the  order  came  reheving  them  they  would  be 
ready  to  go. 

"  The  order  is  here  already,  Sergeant,  and  you 
will  be  paid  off  on  Saturday ;  but  where  do  you 
go?" 

"  We  have  been  hired  by  the  railroad  agent  at 
Gainesville,  to  work  for  the  company,  cap'n.  We'd 
like  to  have  a  line  from  you  recommendin'  us, 
tho'." 

"  That  you  shall  have,"  said  Captain  Brown.  "I 
think  I  can  say  you  have  been  faithful  and  honest 
men  while  here." 

Sergeant  Evans  was  indeed  a  remarkable  man. 
Prompt  in  in  the  discharge  of  every  duty.  Ener- 
getic and  vigilant  in  the  performance  of  every  trust 
committed  to  his  care,  he  could  not  fail  to  secure 
the  confidence  of  his  employer.  He  had  enjoyed 
opportunities  of  education  that  did  not  often  fall  to 
the  lot  of  persons  of  his  color  and  condition  in  life, 
and  showed  a  good  degree  of  general  intelligence. 

"Sergeant,"  resumed  Captain  Brown,  after  hand- 
ing him  what  he  had  written,  "  ain't  it  a  little  risky 
going  out  in  this  State  among  these  rebs  ?  I  should 
think  you  folks  wouldn't  be  very  safe  in  their 
hands." 

"  I  dunno,"  was  the  reply.  "  There's  a  post  at 
Gainesville,  and  I  s'pose  they  won't  disturb  us 
much." 


I 


KU-KLUX.  163 

''  I  hope  they  won't,''  was  the  reply  ;  "but,  upon 
my  word,  I  think  you'd  be  safer  in  the  North." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  North  till  spring,"  said  the 
Sergeant.  "I  made  up  my  mind  to  spend  this  winter 
in  Florida,  and  I'll  try  to  worry  it  out.  I  intend  to 
go  home  in  the  spring." 

"  Where  is  your  home  ?" 

"  In  Philadelphia.  I  lived  therewith  my  mother; 
my  father  is  dead.  I  mean  to  go  home  in  the 
spring.  Mother  is  anxious  for  me  to  come,  and  I 
suppose  by  that  time  I'll  be  glad  to  go." 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  have  good  luck.  You'll 
start  for  Gainesville  on  Monday,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

So  the  conversation  ended.  The  men  left  on  the 
following  Monday,  and  their  places  as  laborers 
were  filled  by  enlisted  men. 

The  central  part  of  Florida  swarms  with  im- 
mense herds  of  cattle.  Sometimes  one  man  owns 
as  many  as  20,000  head.  Toward  the  close  of  the 
rebellion,  the  Confederate  army  depended,  in  a  great 
measure,  for  fresh  beef,  on  Florida  cattle.  In  all 
the  other  rebel  States  the  supply  was  well  nigh  ex- 
hausted.    Here  it  was  plenty  and  cheap. 

After  the  conclusion  of  the  war  the  Federal 
Government  resolved  to  make  its  purchases  of 
fresh  beef  here,  for  the  troops  stationed  in  South 
Carolina  and  Georgia.  In  pursuance  of  this  deter- 
mination, Capt.  Brown  was  directed  to  purchase 
and  ship  a  certain  number  of  beef  cattle  weekly  to 
Charleston  and  Savannah.  After  several  shipments 
the  supplies  came  in  slowly,  and  he  found  it  neces- 


164  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

sary  to  go  out  Into  the  interior  of  the  State  to 
make  some  arrangements  by  which  larger  quanti- 
ties could  be  obtained. 

Accordingly,  on  application  to  Col.  Sprague,  an 
order  was  given  him  to  proceed  to  Gainesville  and 
other  points  for  that  purpose,  with  directions  to 
the  commandant  of  each  post  to  afford  whatever 
protection  might  be  deemed  necessary. 

Gainesville,  situated  on  the  Fernandinaand  Cedar 
Keys  railroad,  is  a  pleasant  little  town  of  Central 
Florida,  and  was  at  that  time  a  military  post,  under 
command  of  Captain  James  CuUen,  who  was  sta- 
tioneu  there  with  a  detachment  of  the  Seventh  U. 
S.  Infantry.  Captain  CuUen  was  not  a  graduate  of 
West  Point,  but  had  been  appointed  from  civil  life 
by  the  first  Secretary  of  War  under  Lincoln's  admin- 
istration. Like  many  other  appointments  that  em- 
anated from  that  source,  it  was  not  remarkable  for 
merit,  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  captain  had  some 
good  qualities.  He  was  a  good-hearted,  clever  fel-j 
low,  with  plenty  of  personal  courage,  having  given 
ample  proof  of  his  bravery  on  several  bloody  battle- 
fields of  the  war.  The  great  trouble  with  him  was 
that  he  had  not  the  faintest  conception  of  the  under- 
lying principles  of  the  conflict  just  closed,  and  pos- 
sessing but  little  force  of  character,  yielded  to  the  in- 
fluences of  stronger  natures  that  surrounded  him, 
whatever  their  tendency  might  be. 

In  the  present  case  the  social  influences  of  the 
neighborhood  were  entirely  controlled  by  unrecon-, 
structed  rebels — men  and  women.  In  tne  conflict; 
of  arms  they  had  failed,  and  so  far  they  had  given 


KU-KLUX.  1 65 

up  the  contest.  But  they  were  determined  not  to 
be  beaten  at  every  point,  and  their  supreme  aim 
now  was  to  control  the  Federal  authorities  as  much 
as  possible. 

Accordingly  Captain  Cullen  was  taken  posses- 
sion of  by  the  leading  citizens  around  Gainesville. 
He  was  feted  and  petted  by  the  women,  treated 
with  great  consideration  by  the  prominent  citizens, 
and  made  so  much  of  that  he  really  began  to  think 
the  Southern  people  were  subjected  to  most  un- 
reasonable oppression,  and  that  the  "  niggers  "  were 
totally  unfit  for  any  other  than  the  condition  from 
which  the  war  had  rescued  them — slavery. 

Added  to  this  he  consumed  large  quantities  of 
the  "ardent,"  and  was  very  likely  to  agree  in  senti- 
ment with  those  who  assisted  him  in  demolishing 
a  bottle  or  two  of  *'  red-eye." 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  of  a  beautiful  day  in 
January,  1866,  that  Captain  Brown  stepped  from 
the  cars  at  the  depot  in  Gainesville,  and  inquired 
of  some  one  standing  near  the  way  to  the  hotel. 

The  evening  was  cool  for  that  climate.  A  short 
distance  away  two  large  fires  were  burning,  around 
which  were  gathered  quite  a  number  of  colored 
[people,  employees  of  the  railroad,  laughing,  talking 
^and  enjoying  the  delightful  evening.  After  learn- 
ing the  direction  of  the  hotel,  Captain  Brown  sur- 
veyed these  groups,  and  saw  standing  among  them 
his  old  acquaintances  of  the  Thirty-third. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  he  was  recognized, 
and  with  that  respect  which  is  a  part  of  the  mili- 


1 66  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

tary  discipline,  they  stepped  forward  and  saluted 
him.     He  extended  his  hand,  saying : 

"Well,  boys,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  How  do  you 
get  along  here  ?  " 

*•  Right  well;  don't  like  it  so  well  tho'  as  at  Jack- 
sonville," said  one. 

The  rest  of  the  negroes,  and  some  white  men 
who  were  standing  near,  looked  on  with  astonish- 
ment. They  had  not  been  accustomed  to  see  a 
Federal  officer  speak  so  cordially  to  negroes. 

"Cap'n,"  said  Sergeant  Evans,  "if  you  are  going 
up  to  the  hotel,  I'll  carry  your  valise." 

So  toward  the  hotel,  which  was  some  two  hun- 
dred yards  away,  they  started  ;  on  the  way  the  ser- 
geant took  occasion  to  say  : 

"  Mighty  rough  place  about  here,"cap'n." 

"  Do  they  disturb  you  any?" 

"  Yes,  cap'n,  we  have  to  be  very  careful.  They'd 
kill  a  black  man  as  quick  as  they  would  a  wild 
turkey." 

'•  Well,  I  suppose  Captain  Cullen  will  give  you 
protection.     It's  his  duty  to  do  that." 

"  Poor  protection  we  get  from  him,  cap'n,  he 
won't  listen  to  anybody  but  secesh." 

They  were  now  approaching  the  hotel. 

"Where  are  the  head-quarters  of  the  post?" 
asked  Captain  Brown. 

"Just  across  there,  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  in 
that  big  frame  building.  That  is  the  old  court- 
house." 

Captain  Brown  entered  the  hotel.  The  sergeant 
returned.     He  had  evidently  sought  an  interview 


KU-KLUX.  167 

for  the  purpose  of  giving  the  captain  some  idea  of 
the  state  of  affairs  around  Gainesville. 

The  hotel  was  a  large  and  commodious  one,  ca- 
pable of  accommodating  at  least  a  hundred  guests. 
It  had  been  largely  patronized  by  invalids  from  the 
North  previous  to  the  war,  during  the  winter  sea- 
son. Now,  however,  it  depended  mainly  on  custom 
from  the  neighborhood.  Quite  a  large  crowd  were 
drinking  at  the  bar,  which  was  in  a  shed  outside  of 
the  main  building. 

Captain  Brown  entered  the  hotel,  and  registering 
his  name,  ordered  supper,  which  he  was  told  would 
be  ready  in  half  an  hour.  He  then  started  over  to 
the  head-quarters  of  the  post,  to  pay  his  respects  to 
the  commander. 

Captain  Cullen  received  him  with  the  rough  cor- 
diality that  was  natural  to  him. 

"How  are  you,  old  fellow?"  said  he.  "You 
must  make  your  home  with  me  while  you  're  here; 
can  't  put  at  no  hotel ;  no  sir!^ 
K  "  I  have  already  done  that,  captain,  but  I  will 
only  be  here  till  morning.  Do  you  know  any  of 
the  large  cattle  owners  in  this  section  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Devilish  good  fellows  too.  There 's 
Johnson,  lives  about  nine  miles  down  south.  He  's 
got  more  cattle  than  you  could  shake  a  stick  at. 
I  was  at  a  party  at  his  house  last  week.  Perfect 
gentleman,  he  is." 

"  My  business  is  to  make  arrangements  for  pur- 
chasing beef  cattle  for  the  supply  of  troops  in 
Charleston  and  Savannah.     Here  are  my   orders." 


l68  JOHN    AND    MARY 


I 


Captain  Cullen  looked  over  the  order  of  Colonel 
Sprague,  and  said  : 

"  All  right,  old  fellow.  I  '11  give  you  anything 
you  need.     What  '11  you  want?" 

"  Nothing  but  a  horse,  and  perhaps  an  orderly 
who  knows  something  of  the  country.  I  want  to 
start  out  to-morrow  morning." 

*'  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  some  of  my  acquain- 
tances round  here  before  you  leave,"  said  Captain 
Cullen.  "  You'll  find  'em  first-rate  kind  of  people." 

"  How  do  they  use  the  darkies  since  they  're 
free?"  | 

"  Better  'n  they  deserve.     The  niggers   are  lazy  * 
and  worthless.     They  're  used  better  'n  they  ought 
to  be." 

At  this  juncture  there  were  footsteps  in  the  pas- 
sage, the  door  was  pushed  open  a  little  rudely,  and 
a  young  man  of  medium  size,  dark  complexion 
with  a  restless  eye  and  a  devil-may-care  look,  en- 
tered the  room. 

"How  are  you,   Cullen?"  said   he,  boisterously 
He  had  evidently  been  drinking. 

"  How  diVQ  you,  McKnight?"  said  Cullen,  shaking 
his  hand  with  great  heartiness.  **  I  'm  devilish  glad 
to  see  you.  Here's  my  friend.  Captain  Brown. 
Captain  Brown,  Mr.  McKnight.  He  's  as  good  a 
fellow  as  you  ever  saw.  Was  in  the  rebel  army, 
but  aint  any  the  worse  for  that." 

"  What  branch  of  t  e  service  were  you  in,  Mr. 
McKnight?"  inquired  Brown. 

"Cavalry,  sir." 


KU-KLUX.  169 

The  two  men  eyed  each  other  rather  inquiringly, 
neither  one  seeming  quite  satisfied  with  his  obser- 
vations. 

"  Orderly,"  said  Capt.  CuUen  to  a  dirty-looking 
soldier,  who  was  lounging  about  the  door,  "  go 
over  to  Wilson's  and  bring  a  bottle  of  his  best 
whisky. 

Wilson  was  the  man  who  kept  a  small  grocery 
in  Gainesville.  The  principal  article  in  his  stock 
of  goods  was  bad  whisky. 

The  orderly  soon  returned  and  set  down  a  black 
bottle,  which  Capt.  CuUen  uncorked.  "  Try  that, 
McKhight,"  said  he,  "you're  a  judge.  Here,  or- 
derly, bring  us  something  to  drink  out  of" 

The  soldier,  after  considerable  search,  produced 
a  dirty  tumbler  and  two  rusty-looking  tins. 

When  the  whisky  was  poured  out  it  smelled  like 
a  compound  of  coal-oil,  benzine  and  turpentine. 
Cullen  and  McKnight  took  long  draughts;  Brown 
tasted  it  carefully. 

"  Pretty  good  whisky,  that,  ain't  it,  captain  ?"  said 
Cullen.     "  How  is  it,  McKnight?" 

"Well,  I've  seen  better,"  was  the  reply;  "but  it's 
a  good  deal  better  'n  none." 

Captain  Brown  said  he  must  go  to  supper,  which 
was  now  ready.  Bidding  good-evening  to  the 
party,  he  passed  over  to  the  hotel. 

After  partaking  of  a  substantial  meal,  he  talked 
some  ten  minutes  with  the  host,  who  was  a  French- 
man, and  had  been  there  but  a  short  time. 

He  then  passed  out  on  the  porch.  The  night 
was  as  beautiful  as  the  imagination  could  picture. 
8 


lyo  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

There  was  no  moon,  but  the  stars  which  studded 
the  heavens  so  thickly  that  there  scarcely  seemed 
room  for  them  all,  shone  with  a  brilliancy  that  he 
thought  he  had  never  seen  equaled.  The  air  was 
just  cool  enough  to  be  bracing,  without  feeling  un- 
comfortable when  one  was  moving  about.  He 
walked  back  and  forth  enjoying  the  glorious  night. 

Suddenly  a  crowd  of  some  fifteen  men  came  from 
the  direction  of  the  depot,  and  stopped  opposit 
the  hotel,  across  the  street. 

They  were  talking    excitedly.      Brown  walke 
over  near  them   and  tried   to  learn  the   subject  o; 
their  conversation,  but  they  observed  him  and  con 
versed  in  whispers.     Finally  they  adjourned  to  the 
bar-room  where  there  was  another  party  demolish- 
ing "  red-eye." 

He  walked  carelessly  round  near  the  door  and 
stood  admiring  the  grandeur  of  the  night     After^ 
some  time  one  of  the  party  came  out  carrying  wit 
him  a  load  of  benzine. 

"What's  wrong  with   those    fellow^s?"    inquire 
Brown,  carelessly. 

"  Not  much.     Nothin'  but  a  nigger  bin  shot. 

"Where?" 

"  Down  at  the  railroad.     Hap'n'd  just  a  bit  ago." 

"Who  shot  him?" 

"  Capt'n  McKnight." 

"What?" 

"  Capt'n  McKnight,  that  was  in  our  army.  They 
won't  hurt  him  for  it.     He's  very  thick  with  Cul 
len,   who   commands   the  post   here.     There's    no 
danger  of  him  being  disturbed." 


i 


KU-KLUX.  171 

"What  was  the  negro  doing?" 

"I  dun'  no." 

Captain  Brown  could  scarcely  credit  the  infor- 
mation ;  but  he  thought  it  best  to  report  the  matter 
to  the  commander  of  the  post.  So  he  crossed  over 
to  Cullen's  head-quarters  and  informed  him  of  what 
he  had  heard. 


I 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


LOST    AND    FOUND. 

"The  land  wants  such 
As  dare  with  rigor  execute  the  laws, 
******* 

He's  a  bad  surgeon  that  for  pity  spares 
The  part  corrupted  till  the  gangrene  spread 
And  all  the  body  perish  :  he  that's  merciful 
Unto  the  bad,  is  cruel  to  the  good" 

Captain  Cullen  was  seated  alone  in  his  office 
when  Brown  entered.  The  black  bottle  stood 
empty  on  the  table.  McKnight  had  gone  and  car- 
ried with  him  a  large  portion  of  its  contents.  Cul- 
len was  more  than  usually  demonstrative. 

"  Captain,"  said  Brown,  when  he  entered,  "  it  is 
reported  that  a  negro  was  shot,  at  the  depot,  this 
evening.     Have  you  heard  of  it?" 

"Yes,  I  did  hear  it;  but  't  ain't  true.  It's  a  lie 
somebody  started.  They  said  McKnight  shot  one  ; 
but  it's  false.     He  told  me  it  was." 

•'Did  you  hear  the  report  before  McKnight  left 
here?" 

"Yes;  some  one  brought  it  here,  and  I  asked 
him. 

Brown  then  related  the  circumstances  under 
which  he  had  heard  the  report,  and  stated  his  belief 
that  it  had  some  foundation. 

"I    don't    believe    it,",  reiterated    Cullen,    "but 

if  you  want  it  done  I'll  send  down   an  orderly  to 

inquire." 

"Do  you  know  where  McKnight  is?" 
172 


I 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  I  73 

"  No ;  he  went  out  a  while  ago  ;  I  suppose  he  '11 
be  in  before  long.  I  tell  you  he's  a  bully  good 
fellow." 

'*  Well,  captain,  suppose  you  send  an  orderly 
down  to  learn  the  facts  of  this  case.  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  ought  not  to  be  satisfied  without  know- 
ing the  whole  truth." 

"Well,  if  you  say  so,  I  will ;  but  I'm  sure  the  re- 
port 's  false." 

He  then  called  an  orderly  and  directed  him  to 
proceed  to  the  depot  and  make  all  possible  inquiry 
concerning  the  affair,  and  report. 

In  half  an  hour  he  came  back  and  said  there  was 
no  truth  in  the  rumor.  A  pistol  had  been  fired  off 
accidentally,  but  no  one  had  been  struck  and  no 
damage  done. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  said  Cullen,  triumph" 
antly.  "You  musn't  believe  what  these  niggers 
say.  They  're  the  ornericst  creatures  in  creation. 
Never  o't  to  been  set  free." 

"  It  was  n't  a  negro  that  told  me,  captain,"  said 
Brown.  "  It  was  a  reb,  and  he  rejoiced  in  the  con- 
viction that  you  would  n't  have  McKnight  arrested 
for  shooting  one.  But  I  am  very  glad  that  the  ru- 
mor has  no  foundation.     Good-evening." 

"  Good-evening,  captain,"  said  Cullen,  "  I'll  give 
you  whatever  you  need  in  the  morning." 

Brown  passed  out  of  the  office  and  directed  his 
steps  toward  the  hotel.  A  crowd  was  on  the  porch, 
and  in  the  shed  which  contained  the  bar  there  was 
noise  and  confusion.  Suddenly  a  thought  struck 
him.     It  was  still  possible  that  the  report  he  had 


174  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

heard  was  true.  His  experience  in  that  country 
had  taught  him  that  it  was  best  to  beheve  only 
what  he  saw.  What  if  it  were  true  and  Sergeant 
Evans  or  one  of  his  comrades  was  the  murdered 
man?  They  had  no  friends  here,  and  it  was  his 
imperative  duty  to  ascertain  the  truth.  So  he  turn- 
ed his  footsteps  in  the  direction  of  the  depot,  deter- 
mined to  learn  the  facts  for  himself,  if  possible. 

When  he  reached  there  it  seemed  silent  and  de- 
serted. The  fires,  around  which  groups  of  people 
had  been  standing  early  in  the  evening,  had  gone 
out,  and  only  a  few  embers  smouldered  there. 
Several  car  bodies  stood  around,  some  on  trucks 
and  some  on  the  ground.  In  one  he  espied  a  glim- 
mering light. 

He  approached  it  and  rapped  against  the  door. 
No  answer  came. 

He  rapped  more  vigorously.  The  light  was  sud- 
denly extinguished,  but  still  no  reply.  He  called, 
but  no  one  answered.  At  length  he  said  :  "  Is  Ser- 
geant Evans  in  this  car  ?"  A  voice  replied  quickly : 
"  No,  sah."    *'  Where  is  he  then  ?"    "  I  dunno,  sah." 

This  was  rather  unsatisfactory,  and  it  seemed 
evident  that  but  little  information  was  to  be  ob- 
tained here.  He  walked  down  to  the  railroad  track 
and  looked  carefully  all  around.  No  one  could  be 
seen.  Finally  he  discerned  a  light,  some  distance 
away,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  railroad.  Toward 
this  he  started,  and  approaching,  saw  that  it  came 
from  a  small  log  hut  standing  in  a  cluster  of  trees. 
As  he  came  near  he  saw  a  negro  standing  by  the 
door. 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  I  75 

The  latter  discerning  the  United  States  uniform, 
went  for  his  fragment  of  a  hat  and  made  a  profound 
bow. 

"  Well,  my  man,"  said  Brown,  "  do  you  work  for 
the  railroad?" 

"  Yes,  sah." 

"  Where  do  the  men  who  work  here  sleep  ?" 

"  Dey  sleeps  in  de  kaws,  cap'n,  most  uv  'em.'* 

"  Do  you  know  Sergeant  Evans?" 

"  Yes,  sah,  I  knows  de  sargen.  He  sleep  in  de 
kaw." 

"Will  you  come  and  show  me  where  he  is ?" 

The  negro  hesitated,  and  seemed  anxious  to  avoid 
doing  this  ;  but  could  not  positively  refuse.  At 
length  Brown  said  : 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  a  man  being  shot 
here  this  evening  ?"  He  hesitated  again,  and  seem- 
ed reluctant  to  answer. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  tell  all  you  know  con- 
cerning it,"  said  Captain  Brown,  at  length,  perceiv- 
ing the  evident  fear  under  which  the  man  was  la- 
boring. "  I  intend  to  find  out  all  about  it,  and 
mean  to  have  the  man  who  is  guilty  punished.  You 
shall  not  be  disturbed  for  telling  all  you  know.  If 
you  do  not  tell  you  shall  be  arrested  and  pun- 
ished." 

"Well,  sah,  I  tells  all  I  knows  'bout  it.  But  if 
de  secesh  finds  me  out  dey  '11  kill  me." 

"No  danger  of  that;  I  '11  see  that  you  ar6  pro- 
tected.    Who  was  shot?" 

"Sargen  Evans,  cap'n." 

"  Great  God !  are  you  telling  the  truth  ?** 


176  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

'*  Truth,  'fore  God,  cap'n.  He  shot,  an'  he  layin' 
in  de  kaw." 

"  What  car  is  he  in?     Is  he  much  injured?" 

"  He  's  in  de  kaw  on  de  wheels,  close  by  de  road. 
De  sargen  not  much  hurt ;  he  shot  in  de  hip." 

"Come  and  show  me  where  he  is;  I  must  see 
him." 

So,  guided  by  the  negro.  Brown  proceeded  to  a 
car  body  which  was  standing  on  a  truck  about 
twenty  yards  from  where  he  had  met  Sergeant 
Evans  early  in  the  evening.  Two  boxes,  a  large 
and  small  one,  stood  by  the  door  of  the  car,  and 
on  these  they  clambered  and  rapped  against  the 
side.     A  low  voiceanswered  : 

"Whodar?" 

"  De  Unyen  osfer  yere.  He  want  to  see  de  sar- 
gen," said  the  negro. 

The  door  opened  cautiously,  and  a  black  face 
peered  out. 

"Is  Sergeant  Evans  in  here?"  asked  Brown. 

"  Yes,  sah." 

"  Have  you  a  candle?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"  Light  it,  I  want  to  come  in." 

He  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a  candle,  and- 
Brown  entered  the  car.  The  negro  who  had  guided 
him  to  the  place,  returned  to  his  cabin. 

In  one  end  of  the  car,  stretched  on  a  rude  bed, 
lay  Sergeant  Evans.     Brown  approached  him. 

"Sergeant,  what's  wrong?" 

"I've  been  shot,  cap'n." 

"  Are  you  much  injured  ?" 


LOST    AND    FOUND.  1 77 

"  Not  much,  I  believe.  I  was  struck  in  the  hip 
by  a  pistol  ball.  It  is  quite  painful ;  but  I  suppose 
not  dangerous.     It  has  bled  a  good  deal." 

This  was  quite  evident ;    his   pantaloons,  which 
were  still  on,  were  saturated  with  blood.     On  un- 
covering the  wound  Brown  found  it  high  up  on  the. 
hip,  and  looking  as  though  it  had  been  probed. 

"  Had  you  a  doctor  to  see  you,  sergeant?" 

"There  was  one  here,  cap'n.  Some  of  the  rebs 
brought  one  who  lives  about  a  mile  out  of  town. 
He  examined  the  wound  and  said  it  wasn't  of  much 
account.  He  wanted  to  take  out  the  ball  but 
couldn't  find  it.  Said  he'd  be  back  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Who  was  it  that  shot  you?" 

"  A  fellow  by  the  name  of  McKnight;  he  was  in 
a  rebel  guerrilla  company  in  the  war.  I  believe 
they  called  them  *  cavalry'  here." 

"  How  did  the  affair  happen?  Tell  me  all  about 
it." 

"Well,  when  I  came  back  from  carrying  your 
valise  to  the  hotel,  I  was  standing  with  the  rest 
around  the  fire,  where  I  was  when  you  first  came 
here,  talking  with  the  boys.  Suddenly  McKnight 
and  some  half  dozen  others  rode  up  and  com- 
menced cursing  and  swearing  at  us  and  calling  us 
all  kinds  of  names.  We  didn't  want  to  quarrel  and 
said  nothing.  This  seemed  to  make  McKnight  still 
worse,  and  at  last  he  jumped  off  his  horse  and 
pulling  out  a  revolver  swore  he  would  shoot  every 

d d  nigger  on  the  ground.     W^e   thought  best 

to  leave  quietly,  I  among  the  rest,  as  I  know  him 


178  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

to  be  a  desperate  fellow.  I  started  for  this  car 
without  saying  a  word,  and  was  within  ten  feet  of 
it  when  he  fired  two  shots,  one  of  which  struck  me, 
and  I  fell.  He  then  jumped  on  his  horse  and  rode 
away  with  the  rest.  The  boys  helped  me  into  the 
car,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour  the  doctor  came 
and  asked  to  see  me.  When  he  went  away  he  told 
me  not  to  let  any  one  know  about  it." 

**  Are  you  sure  that  it  was  McKnight  that  fired 
at  you  ?" 

*•  Oh,  yes ;  several  of  them  saw  him.  Every 
one  that  was  here  knows  it  was  him." 

"  Why  didn't  you  make  complaint  to  the  com- 
mander of  the  post?"  pursued  Brown. 

'*  We  did,  cap'n ;  but  what's  the  use  of  com- 
plaining to  Cap'n  CuUen?  George  and  Sam,  the 
men  who  were  with  me  at  Jacksonville,  went  up 
and  told  him.  All  he  did  was  to  put  them  in  the 
guard-house.  He  won't  listen  to  any  complaint 
from  our  people.  He's  very  thick  with  McKnight, 
and  the  crowd  that  travel  with  him,  and  it's  no  mat- 
ter what  they  do,  he'll  stand  by  them." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  these  men  are  in 
the  guard-house  for  simply  informing  him  that 
McKnight  had  shot  you?" 

"  Yes  I  do,  cap'n;  they  are  there  and  for  no  other 
reason." 

Brown's  blood  boiled.  He  was  no  better  or  worse 
than  men  generally  are  ;  but  his  education  had  been 
anti-slavery,  and  his  sympathies  were  all  with  the 
oppressed  race.  Besides,  he  thought  this  action  on 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  179 

the  part  of  a   Federal   officer  was  an  outrage  for 
which  there  was  no  excuse. 

"Sergeant,"  said  he,  "  I  will  go  and  see  the  cap- 
tain myself  The  man  who  shot  you  must  be  ar- 
rested if  he  can  be  found.  I  will  be  back  here  in 
the  morning." 

He  then  bade  the  wounded  man  good-night,  and 
directed  his  footsteps  once  more  toward  the  quar- 
ters of  Captain  Cullen. 

Reaching  there  he  found  that  officer  had  retired. 
The  contents  of  the  black  bottle  had  made  him 
drowsy,  and  he  had  gone  to  bed  at  an  unusually 
early  hour. 

A  soldier  was  on  guard  at  the  door,  and  he  was 
directed  to  call  the  captain.  He  seemed  reluctant 
to  comply  ;  but  finally  consented.  After  a  long 
time  Cullen  dressed  himself  and  came  down-stairs. 

Captain  Brown  apologized  for  his  disturbance, 
and  stated  his  business.  He  had  fully  investigated 
the  matter  and  knew  all  about  the  shooting.  Cul- 
len expressed  his  unbelief 

"  There  is  no  use  in  denying  and  no  ground  for 
doubting  the  fact.  I  have  seen  the  man  who  was 
shot  and  know  him  well.  He  was  in  my  employ 
at  Jacksonville.  He  is  shot  and  declares  that  Mc- 
Knight  did  it.  Captain,  you  must  arrest  that  man." 

"  I  don't  believe  McKnight  shot  him,  and  I  don't 

want  to  arrest  him.     He's  a  d d  clever  fellow 

and  belongs   to  one  of  the  best  families  in  this 
neighborhood." 

"  I  don't  care  what  family  he  belongs  to  or  who 
he  is.      He  must  be  arrested   and  placed   under 


l8o  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

guard  to  await  Colonel  Sprague's  order.  There  is 
no  civil  authority  in  this  county,  and  if  there  were 
it  would  be  worthless.  It  is  not  worth  while  to 
waste  words  about  the  matter,  but  if  you  don't  do 
it  I'll  return  to  Jacksonville  in  the  morning  and  re- 
port the  whole  affair  to  Colonel  Sprague." 

This  remark  had  the  desired  effect.  Much  as 
Cullen  was  disinclined  to  arrest  his  associate,  he 
disliked  still  more  to  incur  the  displeasure  of  Col- 
onel Sprague  who,  he  knew,  was  not  very  friendly 
to  him  at  best. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  **  I  suppose  there  is  no  other 
way.     Where  is  McKnight  ?  " 

"I  suppose  he  is  somewhere  about  the  hotel." 

"  Orderly,  go  and  tell  Sergeant  Beam  to  report 
here  with  a  file  of  men  immediately." 

This  order  was  obeyed,  and  in -a  short  time  the 
officer  and  men  made  their  appearance.  The  ser- 
geant was  a  determined-looking  fellow,  who  would 
be  likely  to  obey  orders  at  all  risks.  ^ 

"  Sergeant,  do  you  know  McKnight,  who  is  here 
sometimes?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  He  is  said  to  have  shot  a  man  this  evening. 
You  must  arrest  him  and  put  him  in  the  guard- 
house until  further  orders.  You  will  find  him 
about  the  hotel." 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  then  started.  In  a  short  time  he  returned 
and  said  the  man  could  not  be  found. 

"  Captain,"  said  Brown,  *'  I'll  find  him  if  he  is 
here.     Let  the  sergeant  come  with  me." 


i 


LOST    AND    FOUND.  l8l 

This  was  consented  to,  somewhat  reluctantly,  and 
the  party  started  out. 

As  they  approached  the  hotel  a  confused  noise  of 
oaths  and  imprecations  were  heard  in  the  shed 
where  the  bar  stood.  The  soldiers  halted,  and 
Brown  entered.  Amid  the  crowd  of  villainous- 
looking  faces  he  discerned  McKnight.  Stepping 
back  he  told  the  sergeant  to  go  in  and  arrest  him. 

"Forward,"  said  he,  and  the  bayonets  glittered 
in  the  doorway,  the  officer  in  front.  Silence  fell 
upon  the  bewildered  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  which 
the  coarse  voice  of  Sergeant  Beam  was  heard : 

"  Mr.  McKnight,  you  are  arrested,  come  with  me." 

The  man  thus  addressed  looked  up  with  uncon- 
cealed surprise. 

"  By  whose  orders  ?" 

"Captain  CuUen's,  sir." 

"  Hell  and  damnation  !" 

"No  words,  sir;  come  along  at  once." 

"What  am  I  arrested  for  ?" 

"  I  dunno,  sir." 

"  Where  will  you  take  me  to?" 

"  To  the  guard-house.     Come!" 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  that  admitted  of  no  de- 
lay. McKnight's  face  was  livid  with  rage  ;  but  he 
dared  not  show  any  resistance.  So  he  reluctantly 
accompanied  the  resolute  sergeant.  For  a  moment 
the  crowd  in  the  bar-room  seemed  paralyzed.  This 
was  something  they  had  not  expected.  They  could 
scarcely  believe  that  Captain  CuUen  had  ordered 
the  arrest  of  a  man  with  whom  he  was  so  intimate. 


l82  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Finally,  after  a  good  deal  of  consultation  together, 
a  part  of  them  started  over  to  see  the  captain. 

Brown  sought  the  porch  of  the  hotel  again  and 
walked  back  and  forth,  reflecting  on  the  events  of 
the  evening. 

After  some  time  the  crowd  which  had  gone  over 
to  CuUen's  head-quarters  returned.  They  were  citi- 
zens of  the  neighborhood,  who  usually  spent  their 
evenings  in  Gainesville,  and  were  friends  of  Mc- 
Knight. 

Approaching  Brown,  one  of  them  said  : 

*'  Captain,  thar  's  no  use  'n  arrestin'  McKnight, 
he  did  n't  shoot  anybody.  There  was  n't  anybody 
shot." 

Brown  dodged  the  matter  a  little  at  first  and 
said: 

"  Well,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  Captain 
Cullen  is  commander  of  the  post." 

"  But  Cullen  leaves  it  all  to  you.  He  says  he 
would  n't  have  arrested  him  only  for  you." 

"  Captain  Cullen  is  responsible  for  his  own  acts." 

"  Yes,  but  he  's  willin'  to  let  him  go  if  you  are 
satisfied.  The  man  *s  not  guilty  of  anything,  and 
he 's  a  mighty  clever  fellow  and  belongs  to  a  good 
family." 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  that  may  all  be ;  but  as  for 
there  being  no  one  shot  I  know  better.  I  have  seen 
the  man  myself  who  was  shot,  and  I  know  the  man 
who  was  arrested  did  it." 

This  was  a  poser  ;  they  returned  again  to  Cullen 
and  had  a  long  interview.  This  resulted  in  Cullen 
himself  coming  over  to  the  hotel. 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  1 83 

"  Brown,"  said  he,  "  these  people  all  swear  that 
nobody  was  shot ;  aint  you  mistaken  ?" 

"  No,  captain,  I  am  not.  As  I  have  already  told 
you,  I  saw  and  talked  with  the  man  who  is  wounded, 
and  examined  his  wound.  That  ought  to  set  the 
matter  at  rest." 

"  That 's  so,  but  how  am  I  to  get  rid  of  these 
people  ?" 

"  Put  them  all  in  the  guard-house." 

"  I  can  't  do  that ;  they  're  mighty  clever  to  me. 
Don't  you  think  we  'd  better  let  him  go  ?  I  'm  sure 
he  '11  do  nothing  out  of  the  way  again." 

"  No,  captain,  that  would  never  do.  They  need 
to  be  taught  a  lesson,  and  there  can  never  be  a  bet- 
ter opportunity.  This  act  shows  a  recklessness  of 
life  that  needs  to  be  curbed." 

"  Well,  if  you  say  so  I  '11  keep  him ;  but  it  puts 
me  in  a  tight  place." 

"  I'll  telegraph  to  Sprague  in  the  morning," 
said  Brown,  "  and  let  him  send  up  a  guard  to  take 
the  fellow  to  Jacksonville  and  try  him  there." 

"  By  G — d,  he  '11  hang  him  if  he  gets  him  there 
once." 

"  By  the  way,  Cullen,  did  you  put  a  couple  of 
colored  men  in  the  guard-house  to-night  for  re- 
porting this  affair  to  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  They  say  you  did." 

"  If  it  was  done  I  did  n't  know  anything  of  it, 
and  I  don't  believe  it."  • 

"  Let^s  go  down  and  see." 


1 84  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

"  No  captain,  excuse  me.  L  do  n't  want  to  see 
McKnight." 

"  Well,  walk  down  near  there  with  me,  I  want  to 
see." 

So  the  two  walked  down  to  a  log  building,  a  short 
distance  outside  of  town.  It  had  been  used  as  a 
blacksmith  shop  at  one  time,  and  was  not  a  very- 
inviting  place  for  a  man  to  lodge  in.  A  fire  was 
burning  near,  around  which  a  corporal  and  a  few 
soldiers  were  seated  ;  at  the  door  was  a  soldier  on 
guard.  Cullen  lingered  behind,  while  Brown  ap- 
proached the  guard  and  asked  if  two  colored  men 
had  been  put  in  there  that  night. 

"  Yes,  cap'n." 

"  Let  them  come  to  the  door." 

They  were  called  out  and  proved  to  be  the  com- 
rades of  Sergeant  Evans.  They  stated  that  they 
had  been  put  in  by  a  lieutenant  to  whom  they  had 
reported  the  affair  at  the  depot. 

Brown  walked  back  and  consulted  with  Cullen. 
The  latter  then  approached  and  gave  orders  for 
the  men's  release,  who  went  on  their  way  rejoicing. 

The  fire  around  which  the  corporal  and  his  men 
were  sitting  threw  some  rays  of  light  into  the  old 
shop  where  the  prisoners  were  confined.  Captain 
Brown  peeped  through  between  the  logs  and  took 
a  look  at  them.  There  sat  McKnight  on  the  frag- 
ment of  a  bench,  looking  the  picture  of  rage.  It 
was  an  indignity  he  could  ill  brook.  Around  the 
room  were  scattered  a  few  negroes  and  some  half- 
dozen  soldiers.  The  ground  was  bare,  with  here 
and  there  a  board,  the  only  article  that  could  be 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  185 

used  as  a  bed.  It  looked  gloomy  and  desolate 
enough. 

Satisfied  with  his  reconnoissance,  he  turned  to- 
ward the  town,  and  was  soon  joined  by  his  compan- 
ion.    The  two  then  walked  silently  back. 

When  Captain  Brown  reached  the  hotel  there 
were  still  some  of  the  crowd  remaining.  They  again 
besought  him  to  let  McKnight  go,  using  every  ar- 
gument that  ingenuity  could  frame  to  produce  an 
impression.  He  could  no  longer  doubt  that  the 
whole  responsibility  of  arresting  the  man  had  been 
thrown  upon  him,  but  he  determined  not  to  flinch. 
Indeed,  there  could  be  no  excuse  for  failing  to  pun- 
ish such  an  outrage.  Finally,  he  told  them  it  was 
useless  to  talk  about  the  matter  any  longer;  the 
man  had  been  shot  and  the  offense  was  a  most  un- 
provoked one.  The  party  who  had  been  arrested 
was  the  one  who  did  it,  and  he  would  have  to  stand 
his  trial  for  the  crime.  If  Cullen  took  the  respon- 
sibility of  releasing  him,  he  would  report  the  whole 
matter  to  Colonel  Sprague. 

With  this  he  left  and  retired  to  bed. 

He  awakened  early  the  next  morning,  and  his 
first  thoughts  were  of  the  wounded  man.  He  de- 
termined to  go  down  and  see  him  and  have  him 
removed  to  some  more  comfortable  quarters.  In- 
deed, it  should  have  been  done  the  evening  before, 
but  in  the  confusion  was  lost  sight  of 

After  dressing  himself  he  walked  down  toward 
the  railroad.  No  one*was  to  beseen.  It  was  quite 
early,  the  sun  not  being  up  yet,  and  the  air  cool. 
On  reaching  the  car  where  Sergeant  Evans  was  the 


l86  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

evening  before,  he  found  the  door  open  and  the 
place  entirely  empty ! 

Brown  was  completely  bewildered  by  this  new 
development.  It  was  so  entirely  unexpected  and 
so  utterly  inexplicable,  that  for  a  time  he  was  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  course  to  take. 

After  thinking  the  matter  over  he  concluded  that 
some  of  McKnight's  friends  had  spirited  the  wound- 
ed man  away,  in  order  to  prevent  his  being  used  as 
evidence  against  him.  Should  they  succeed  it  would 
also  give  color  to  the  statement  that  the  whole 
story  about  the  shooting  was  a  hoax. 

He  looked  all  round  but  could  see  no  one.  Fi- 
nally, some  distance  away,  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  railroad,  he  discovered  two  men  approaching 
by  the  public  road.  As  they  came  nearer  he  saw 
that  they  were  the  ones  released  from  the  guard- 
house the  evening  before. 

Walking  over  to  meet  them,  he  asked  : 

"  What  has  become  of  the  sergeant  ?" 

"  Dunno,"  replied  one  of  the  men,  "  when  we  cum 
down  last  night  thar  war  a  boss  and  a  little  wagon 
there  and  two  men  along.  They  hed  jest  lifted 
the  sargent  in  and  then  they  started  on  across  the 
railroad.  We  followed  them  awhile,  and  saw  'em 
stop  at  a  house  up  in  the  edge  of  the  pines  jest 
yonder,"  pointing  to  a  house  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away.  "  Then  we  cum  back  and  laid  in  the 
kaw  till  mornin'.  In  the  mornin*  we  went  to  see  if 
he  was  there,  but  Ji  man  cum  out  and  threaten'd  to 
shoot  us  if  we  did  n't  leave,  so  we  cum  back." 

This  statement  confirmed  his  suspicions,  and  he 


I 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  1 87 

saw  that  the  only  way  for  him  to  do  was  to  find 
the  sergeant  and  take  him  direct  to  Jacksonville. 
He  would  have  to  give  up  for  the  present  the  pur- 
chasing of  cattle  and  devote  himself  to  hunting  this 
man  up  and  taking  him  away  from  Gainesville. 

**  When  do  the  cars  leave  here  for  Jacksonville  ?'* 

"  One  train  leaves  early  in  de  mornin',  and  one  in 
de  evenin'.^' 

"  Well,  boys,  you  had  better  get  out  of  this.  It 's 
no  place  here  for  you  any  longer.  I  '11  find  the  ser- 
geant, if  he  is  to  be  found,  and  take  him  down  this 
evening.    Does  the  railroad  owe  you  anything?" 

"  Not  much,  cap'n.    Dey  owes  us  a  little." 

"Well,  my  advice  to  you  is  to  settle  with  them 
and  get  away  from  here  to-day.  It  '11  be  a  hot  place 
for  you  here  when  I  leave." 

"  Yes,  sah." 

Brown  had  resolved  on  his  course.  He  was  de- 
termined to  find  the  wounded  man  if  possible,  and 
to  do  it  he  saw  that  prompt  action  was  necessary. 
Indeed,  success  depended  entirely  on  that.  So  he 
started  once  more  for  the  head-quarters  of  the  post. 
Every  energy  was  now  fully  aroused.  He  had  be- 
come a  good  deal  attached  to  Sergeant  Evans,  such 
an  attachment  as  a  man  will  form  for  one,  regard- 
less of  rank,  color,  or  caste,  who  shows  in  his  daily 
acts  those  true  qualities  of  manliness  that  are  as 
rare  as  they  are  valuable. 

Reaching  the  place  he  inquired  for  Captain  Cul- 
len,  and  was  told  he  was  in  bed.  He  then  inquired 
for  the  orderly  sergeant,  and  was  directed  to  his 


l88  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

quarters.  To  him  he  told  his  business  and  asked 
for  two  horses  and  an  orderly. 

After  some  delay  these  were  obtained,  and  armed, 
each  with  a  revolver,  they  started.  Reaching  the 
house  that  had  been  pointed  out  by  the  negroes, 
Brown  dismounted,  and,  knocking  at  the  door, 
called  for  the  proprietor. 

A  long,  lank,  cadaverous-looking  fellow  made 
his  appearance,  glanced  cautiously  at  the  captain's 
uniform,  and  said  "  good-mornin'." 

"  Good-morning ;  where  is  the  man  who  was 
brought  here  last  night  ?  The  man  \v;ho  was 
wounded  and  afterward  hauled  over  here  ?  " 

"  'Clar  to  God  I  dunno,  cap'n.  I  can't  tell  whar 
he  is." 

"  I  want  no  trifling.  I  knozv  there  was  a  wounded 
man  brought  here  last  night.     Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  war  a  man  brot  here  last  night. 
Some  men  brought  him  here  an  left  him  in  the  nig- 
ger-quarters over  thar.  This  mornih'  they  come 
an  tuk  him  away.     I  don't  know  whar  he's  gone." 

"  Which  direction  did  they  go  with  him  ?" 

"  Right  up  the  road  thar,  cap'n.  They  went 
about  an  hour  ago." 

Brown  was  satisfied  that  the  man  was  now  tell- 
ing the  truth,  so  he  again  mounted  his  horse  and 
started  off  in  the  direction  indicated. 

The  country  there  is  very  sandy,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult, indeed  impossible,  to  follow  the  track  of  a 
wagon.  The  only  chance  of  doing  so  is  to  observe 
closely,  and  you  may  see  here  and  there  where  it 
has  passed. 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  1 89 

After  they  had  gone  about  half  a  mile  another 
house  was  observed  near  the  road,  with  negro-quar- 
ters in  its  rear.  Careful  observation  did  not  reveal 
any  track  in  that  direction  ;  they  determined,  how- 
ever, to  stop.  Riding  up  to  the  door,  Brown  in- 
quired of  a  negress  if  a  wounded  man  had  been 
brought  there  this  morning. 

"  No  sah,  dere  was  not." 

"  Did  you  see  a  wagon  pass  along  the  road  ? " 

**  Yes  sah,  one  pass  up  de  road  a  while  ago." 

On  they  went  and  soon  reached  a  long  stretch  of 
pine  woods.  After  riding  half  a  mile  here  they 
discovered  at  length  a  narrow  road  leading  off 
nearly  at  right  angles  with  the  main  one.  There 
were  indications  that  a  wagon  had  recently  passed 
over  this,  and  into  it  they  turned.  Pursuing  it 
some  distance,  they  came  to  a  large  frame  house, 
with  the  inevitable  negro-quarters  in  its  rear.  They 
felt  certain  the  man  must  be  here. 

The  proprietor,  a  tall,  lank  fellow,  with  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  on,  was  standing  near  the  door. 

**  Was  there  a  wounded  man  brought  here  this 
morning?"  inquired  Brown. 

"  No,  cap'n,  not  that  I  know  of  Thar  war  no 
one  brot  here." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  call  in  question  your  word,  but 
I  shall  look  for  myself,"  said   Brown,  dismounting. 

"  Well,  you  can  look,  cap'n,  but  thar's  none 
here." 

Supposing  that  if  he  were  there  at  all  he  would^ 
be  in  the  negro-quarters.  Brown  passed  round  to 
the  rear  of  the  main  building.     A  little  negro  boy, 


190  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

without  hat  or  shoes,  was  sitting  down  playing  in 
the  sand  ;  he  started  at  the  sight  of  the  stranger. 

"  Where's  the  man  who  was  brought  here  wounded 
this  morning?"  said  he. 

"  He's  in  dar  mass'r,  in  the  back  room,"  said  the 
boy,  pointing  to  a  shed  in  the  rear  of  one  of  the 
quarters. 

He  felt  now  that  the  search  was  about  to  be 
crowned  with  success.  Advancing  to  the  door  he 
pushed  it  open  unceremoniously ;  as  he  did  so  he 
observed  the  proprietor  eyeing  him  through  the 
back  window  of  the  large  building. 

There,  on  a  bed  of  cotton,  in  the  corner  of  the 
shed,  lay  Sergeant  Evans.  He  looked  up  as  the 
door  opened. 

"  Good  God,  cap'n,  that  you  ?  I  was  afraid 
you'd  never  find  me." 

"  Have  they  hurt  you  much  ?  " 

"  No,  not  much.  I  feel  very  stiff  and  sore 
though,  and  can't  help  myself  much." 

"  I  have  no  time  to  talk  to  you  now.  You  must 
be  got  back,  and  that  quickly.  Do  you  know  the 
men  who  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  one  of  'em.  He's  a  brother  of  the  man 
who  shot  me." 

"  Well,  we  must  get  you  back." 

And  he  went  out  and  called  the  proprietor,  who 
came  out,  looking  anything  but  well  pleased. 

"  I  have  found  the  man  and  I  want  him  taken 
back  to  Gainesville.  Gear  up  your  horse  and  cart, 
and  take  him  there  at  once.  We  won't  put  up  with 
any  more  trifling.     You  lied  to  me  when  I  came 


LOST   AND    FOUND.  I9I 

and  if  you  don^t  do  what  I  tell  you  at  once,  I'll 
have  you  arrested  and  sent  to  Jacksonville." 

The  man  obeyed  with  apparent  reluctance,  but 
without  saying  a  word.  The  idea  of  being  sent  to 
Jacksonville  alarmed  him.  The  Floridians  all  un- 
derstood that  Colonel  Sprague  was  not  a  man  to  be 
trifled  with. 

The  horse,  a  miserable  bunch  of  bones,  was 
brought  out  and  hitched  to  a  shaft  cart,  a  quantity 
of  waste  cotton  laid  in  the  bottom  and  the  wounded 
man  placed  on  it.  The  Floridian  then  mounted  his 
horse,  his  long  legs  nearly  reaching  the  ground,  and 
the  party  started  in  the  direction  of  Gainesville. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


MOTHER    AND  SON. 

"  My  mother  ! — manhood's  anxious  brow 

And  sterner  cares  have  long  been  mine  ; 
Yet  turn  I  to  thee  fondly  now, 

As  when  upon  thy  bosom's  shrine 
My  infant  griefs  were  gently  hushed  to  rest 

And  thy  low  whispered  prayers  my  slumber  blessed." 

No  incident  of  any  consequence  occurred  dur- 
ing the  journey  to  Gainesville,  and  when  the  party 
reached  there  they  drew  up  in  front  of  Captain 
CuUen's  head-quarters.  Brown  dismounted,  and 
entering,  found  that  officer  had  not  yet  made  his 
appearance,  though  it  was  nearly  nine  o'clock.  Re- 
turning, he  directed  the  orderly  to  keep  guard  ovei 
the  team  and  its  driver,  and  then  ascended  to  the' 
captain's  bed-room. 

After  awakening  him,  he  related  all  that  had 
transpired  during  the  morning,  and  stated  that 
the  wounded  man  was  now  here,  and  could 
make  his  own  statement  if  any  further  doubt  re- 
mained in  regard  to  how,  or  by  whom,  he  had  been 
shot. 

"  'Taint  worth  while,"  said  CuUen,  "  I  'spose  the] 
story   must   be  true  ;    but   I    did  n't  believe  it  al 
first.     I  hate  it  like  thunder  to  have  McKnight  ar- 
rested, he's  such  a  d — d  clever  fellow." 

"  I  think,  captain,  he's  only  clever  because  you're 
in  power  here.     If  the  rebs  were   in  power  and  he 
in  command  here,  they  would  use  you  very  differ-j 
ently  from  what  you  use  them.     A  man  who  coulc 
192* 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  1 93 

do  such  an  act  as  he  has  done  to  an  unarmed  and 
defenseless  man,  can  never  be  trusted.  By  the  way, 
I  want  to  take  this  man  down  to  Jacksonville  to- 
day, and  the  morning  train  has  gone.  Where  will 
we  keep  him  until  I  am  ready  to  go  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,  captain,  I  feel  awful  dull  this  morning- 
Let's  go  down-stairs  and  take  a  little  whisky." 

So  down-stairs  they  went,  and  another  black  bot- 
tle was  produced.  After  imbibing,  CuUen  seemed 
in  much  better  spirits.  Brown  observed  this,  and 
said : 

"  Come  out  and  seethe  man  your  friend  shot, 
captain ;  I'd  like  you  to  take  a  look  at  him." 

So  the  two  walked  out  to  where  the  cart  stood, 
with  the  wounded  man  lying  in  it.  The  sergeant 
was  evidently  suffering.  The  jolting  of  the  ve- 
hicle had  irritated  his  wound  and  made  it  painful. 

Cullen  declined  to  question  him,  but  said  he'd 
better  be  taken  to  the  hospital.  He  told  the  or- 
derly to  go  to  the  surgeon  of  the  hospital  and  ask 
him  to  come  over.  He  soon  returned  in  company 
with  that  officer. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Cullen,  "  admit  this  man  to  the 
hospital  until  this  afternoon.  Captain  Brown  intends 
to  take  him  to  Jacksonville.  He  has  been  shot, 
and  his  wound  ought  to  be  dressed." 

The  doctor  made  some  inquiry  about  the  man 
and  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was 
wounded.  He  then  went  into  the  office,  and  writ- 
ing a  note  to  the  hospital  steward,  handed  it  to  the 
orderly.  The  sergeant  was  then  driven  to  the  hos- 
pital, a  short  distance  away,  and  carried  in  and 
9 


194  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

placed  on  a  comfortable  bed.  The  Floridian,  hav- 
ing accomplished  his  allotted  task,  started  in  no 
very  amiable  mood  toward  home. 

Captain  Brown  having  seen  the  wounded  man 
comfortably  fixed,  started  for  the  hotel.  Breakfast 
was  over,  but  some  was  speedily  provided,  to  which 
he  did  full  justice. 

A  considerable  crowd  had  collected  in  from  the 
country,  and  among  them  he  discovered  several  of 
the  men  who  had  shown  so  much  solicitude  for 
McKnight's  release  the  evening  before,  and  had  so 
stoutly  denied  that  he  committed  the  act  with  which 
he  was  charged. 

These  men  were  aware  that  it  was  useless  longer 
to  deny  the  fact  of  the  shooting,  but  they  had  not 
given  up  the  idea  of  effecting  McKnight's  release. 
They  had  now  adopted  the  theory  that  the  affair 
was  an  accident.  Several  of  them  approached 
Brown  and  entered  into  conversation. 

"  Good-mornin',  cap'n.  Goin'  out  to  look  for 
cattle  to-day  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  think  not.  I  shall  return  to  Jackson- 
ville this  afternoon." 

"  Not  goin'  to  look  for  cattle  at  all  ?  " 

"  No.  I  intend  to  take  care  of  this  man  who 
was  shot.  He's  not  safe  here,  and  I  shall  at  once 
take  him  to  a  place  where  I  think  he  is  safe." 

"You're  mistaken,  cap'n.  That  shooting  was 
only  an  accident.  The  man  did  n't  intend  to  shoot 
anybody.     It  was  only  a  joke  on  his  part." 

"  It  was  a  bad  kind  of  a  joke.  I  have  never  seen 
such  jokes  practiced  in  civilized  society.      Even 


MOTHER   AND    SON.  1 95 

putting  your  construction  on  the  act,  it  shows  an 
utter  recklessness  of  life,  such  as  renders  a  man 
who  would  do  it  absolutely  unsafe  to  run  at  large. 
I  don't  think  the  man  is  safe  here,  and  I  propose  to 
take  him  at  once  to  a  place  where  he  will  be. 
Neither  do  I  believe  McKnight,  who  shot  him,  is 
fit  to  run  at  large.  It  is  an  offense  for  which  he 
must  be  tried  and  take  his  chances." 

"  But,  cap'n,  he's  a  mighty  clever  fellow,  and  his 
family  are  among  the  best  in  Florida,  and  it  seems 
purty  hard  that  he  must  be  tried  for  his  life  for 
shootin'  a  nigger." 

"  All  you  say  may  be  true  ;  but  it  is  better  for 
you  and  all  concerned  that  every  man  who  has  no 
more  regard  for  the  law  and  for  human  life,  than  to 
fire  into  a  crowd  of  unarmed  men,  should  be  ar- 
rested and  punished,  no  matter  how  clever  he  is  or 
what  his  family  may  be.  As  for  the  man  he  shot 
being  a  negro,  that  is  true,  but  it  only  makes  the 
offense  greater.  He  imagined  he  could  shoot  a 
colored  man  with  impunity,  and  this  consideration 
adds  cowardice  to  the  act.  Besides,  the  negroes 
were  the  friends  of  the  government  in  its  great 
struggle.  This  man  was  a  Union  soldier,  served 
his  country  with  fidelity,  and  obtained  an  honora- 
ble discharge." 

"  If  it  would  refuse  to  protect  him  it  would  not 
deserve  to  exist.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  am 
determined  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  the 
proper  authorities.  If  justice  is  not  done  in  this 
instance  it  shall  not  be  my  fault.     No  consideration 


196  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

of  any  character  would  tempt  me  to  be  a  party  to 
hushing  up  the  affair.     It  must  take  its  course." 

This  closed  the  matter  so  far  as  any  attempt  to 
induce  Brown  to  consent  to  McKnight's  released 
was  concerned.  They  saw  it  was  no  use  to  press 
it  further. 

He  then  walked  over  to  Cullen's  head-quarters. 

"  Captain,"  said  he,  "  I  think  I  will  telegraph  to 
Col.  Sprague  to  send  up  a  sergeant  and  a  few  men 
to  take  McKnight  down  to  Jacksonville.  He  will 
have  to  be  tried  there." 

''  Well,  I  dunno.  Let  me  see,  hadn't  I  better 
send  him  down  on  the  train  with  you  ?  I'll  send  a 
guard  along." 

"  Yes,  that'll  do.  Perhaps  it's  better,  because 
these  people  will  annoy  you  so  long  as  you  have 
him  here.  By  this  means  you'll  get  rid  of  all  that 
trouble  sooner." 

**  That's  what  I  was  thinking  ;  I'll  have  no  peace 
as  long  as  Ihave  him  here." 

Brown  then  walked  over  to  the  hospital. 

He  met  the  surgeon  just  outside  the  door. 
"  Well,  doctor,  how's  our  patient  ?  have  you  ex- 
amined his  wound  ?  ^' 

"  Captain,"  said  the  surgeon,  who  seemed  to  be 
a  very  careful  and  humane  man,  "there  is  some- 
thing singular  about  that  man's  wound.  The  ball 
struck  him  high  up  on  the  hip  and  evidently  glanced. 
I  cannot  find  it.  It  has  gone  somewhere,  and  may 
do  him  no  harm,  but  still  I  am  afraid.  You  must 
put   him   under  the  charge  of  a  skillful  surgeon 


I 


MOTHER   AND    SON.  I97 

when  you  get  to  Jacksonville.     His  case  may  prove 
worse  than  we  anticipate." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  the  post-surgeon  there  will 
take  charge  of  him.  This  man  is  a  discharged 
Union  soldier,  and  I  feel  sure  there  will  be  no 
trouble.  If  there  should  be,  there's  a  freedman's 
hospital  there,  and  a  good  surgeon  has  charge  of 
it,  who  will  no  doubt  be  willing  to  do  whatever  he 
can." 

"  What  a  fine  looking  man  this  negro  is.  He 
seems  to  be  quite  intelligent  too.'' 

"  Yes.  I  suppose  he  has  had  better  opportuni- 
ties than  they  generally  have." 

"Where's  he  from?" 

"  Philadelphia.  His  mother  is  living  there  now. 
He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  her;  his  father  is  dead, 
and  there's  no  other  children.  It'll  be  rough  on 
her  if  he  goes  off  this  way  after  coming  safe  through 
the  war." 

"  Better  write  for  her  to  come  down  and  take  care 
of  him.  He  may  be  hurt  internally,  though  I  ain't 
sure.  At  any  rate  I  don't  believe  he  will  be  well 
very  soon.  This  moving  about  does  him  no  good  ; 
but  it  can't  be  helped.  If  his  mother  was  to  come 
she'd  take  better  care  of  him  than  anybody  else  ; 
besides,  if  anything  should  happen  she'd  be  better 
satisfied  at  being  here." 

"That's  true.     I'll  speak  to  him  about  it." 

So  the  two  walked  in  and  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  Sergeant  Evans.  After  talking  some  time 
about  his  wound  and  other  matters  connected  with 
it,  Brown  said  ; 


198  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

"  When  did  you  last  hear  from  your  mother, 
sergeant?" 

"  Not  for  a  month.  I  ought  to  write  to  her,  too; 
havn't  written  for  some  time." 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan  to  have  her  come 
down  to  Jacksonville  ?  You'll  need  be  taken  care 
of  for  some  time,  and  nobody  will  do  it  as  well  as 
she." 

He  looked  startled.  Turning  toward  the  doctor, 
he  inquired : 

"  Doctor,  do  you  imagine  this  wound  can  be 
dangerous?" 

"  No,  I  think  not.  Still,  it  may  require  a  long 
time  to  get  well;  "  and  he  added  hesitatingly  :  **  it 
often  happens  that  in  such  cases  here  the  patient 
takes  chills  and  fever,  and  requires  care  and  good 
nursing  for  a  long  while." 

The  sergeant  fell  into  a  deep  study,  and  at  length 
said  : 

**  I'll  send  for  her.  Mother  would  like  to  come 
down  here,  anyway ;  and  if  she  knows  there's  any- 
thing the  matter  with  me,  she'll  have  no  peace  at 
home. 

Sergeant  Evans  had  saved  considerable  money 
during  his  term  of  service  in  the  army,  which  he 
had  placed,  before  coming  to  Gainesville,  in  the 
hands  of  a  Northern  merchant  who  was  doing  busi- 
ness at  Jacksonville.     Brown  knew  this  and  asked : 

**  Had  you  better  send  her  some  money  ?  It'll 
take  considerable  to  pay  her  passage  down." 

**  No ;  mother  has  the  means  to  come.  She  owni 
a  small  house,  and  always  has  some  money  ahead/' 


MOTHER   AND    SON.  I99 

pursued  the  sergeant,  with  a  look  of  satisfaction. 
"  I'll  only  have  to  send  her  word.  When  does  the 
steamer  go  out,  cap'n  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  morning.  We'll  be  down  in  time 
to  send  a  letter  by  it." 

Steamers  plied  between  Savannah  and  Jackson- 
ville twice  a  week.  These  conveyed  mails  and  pas- 
sengers between  Florida  and  the  North.  There 
were  regular  lines  of  steamers  between  Savannah 
and  the  ports  of  Philadelphia  and  New  York. 

"  He  might  as  well  write  the  letter  now,"  re- 
marked the  doctor.  After  you  get  down,  there 
might  not  be  time,  nor  so  good  an  opportunity." 

So  he  obtained  paper,  pen  and  ink,  and  one  of 
the  nurses  was  directed  to  bring  a  table  and  place 
it  by  the  bedside.  Thus  provided,  he  leaned  over 
and  slowly  and  somewhat  painfully,  for  he  was  suf- 
fering from  the  wound,  indited  the  epistle. 

While  thus  engaged  something  in  his  appearance 
attracted  Brown's  attention  and  puzzled  him.  He 
had  not  observed  it  before,  nor  could  he  satisfy  himself 
exactly  what  it  was,  nor  why  it  should  particularly 
impress  him.  It  was  an  expression  of  countenance 
of  a  peculiar  and  striking  character  that  could  not 
be  well  described  by  words.  The  mystery  about  it 
was  that  it  carried  back  his  thoughts  to  some  almost 
forgotten  period  of  the  past,  and  awakened  memo- 
ries that  had  been  still  and  silent  for  years.  And 
yet,  these  were  so  vague  and  undefined,  so  appar- 
ently unreal,  that  he  could  make  nothing  out  of 
them.  He  struggled  with  these  thoughts  a  few 
minutes,  and  seemed  on  the  very  verge  of  catching 


200  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

up  some  important  thread  that  would  lead  to  a  so- 
lution of  the  mystery,  and  then  it  was  lost  more 
hopelessly  than  ever  in  the  deep'ning  shadows  of 
the  past.  Worried  and  perplexed,  at  length  he  dis- 
missed it  from  his  mind  entirely. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  sergeant,  and  I'll  see  that  it 
goes  off  in  the  steamer  to-morrow  morning." 

Sergeant  Evans,  who  was  just  writing  the  direc- 
tion, finished  it  and  handed  the  letter  over,  which 
Brown  placed  in  his  pocket. 

The  doctor  and  Captain  Brown  now  departed, 
and  the  latter  directed  his  footsteps  toward  the 
depot.  Here  he  found  the  men  who  had  been 
released  from  the  guard-house  on  the  previous 
evening. 

"  Good-morning,  cap'n." 

"  Well,  boys,  have  you  settled  up  your  affairs 
here  and  prepared  to  leave  ?" 

"  Yes,   cap'n,  de  man  paid  us  and  we're  ready  ( 
to  go." 

"  Do  they  owe  the  sergeant  anything?" 

"  Dunno,  I  guess  dey  does  tho'." 

"  Where  is  the  agent?" 

"  In  de  little  box  over  yonder.  He's  got  de  of- 
fice dar,"  pointing  to  a  little  office  some  distance 
away,  about  four  feet  square,  and  made  of  pine 
boards  nailed  on  a  rough  frame. 

Brown  passed  over  and  entered.  The  agent  was 
a  man  apparently  about  thirty,  and  did  not  have 
the  appearance  of  a  native.  He  looked  like  on< 
who  knew  something  about  his  business  and  at- 
tended to  it. 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  20I 

Brown  inquired  concerning  his  account  with  the 
sergeant,  and  was  told  they  owed  him  twenty  dol- 
lars. He  asked  if  they  would  pay  the  money  to 
him,  and,  after  relating  the  circumstances,  was  told 
that  they  would.  It  was  suggested,  however,  that 
the  sergeant  could  sign  a  receipt,  and  one  of  the 
negroes  was  called  and  dispatched  with  one  to  him 
for  that  purpose.  He  soon  returned,  and  the  money 
was  paid  over. 

He  and  the  agent  then  fell  into  conversation  on 
the  occurrences  of  the  previous  evening  and  the 
general  condition  of  society  in  Florida. 

"  The  white  people  around  here,"  remarked  the 
latter,  "  at  least  the  most  of  them,  are  continually 
complaining  about  the  laziness  of  the  negroes  and 
their  disinclination  to  work.  The  fact  is,  that  with 
a  few  rare  exceptions,  they  are  the  only  ones  who 
will  work.  A  pretty  time  we'd  have  here  if  they  were 
as  lazy  as  the  whites  !  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is,  but 
in  that  case  it  would  be  infinitely  worse.  The  young 
white  men  of  this  State  are  as  worthless  a  set  of 
fellows  as  there  is  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  This 
fellow,  McKnight,  is  a  bad,  dangerous  man,  and  a 
curse  to  the  neighborhood.  The  gang  who  go  with 
him  are  but  little  better,  though  none  of  them  are 
quite  as  reckless  as  he.  They  are  all  the  worse  for 
belonging  to  so-called  good  families,  and  possess- 
ing some  mental  culture  and  education.  It  would 
be  hard  to  imagine  a  more  dangerous  class,  and  one 
more  difficult  to  manage." 

"  Do  the  respectable  citizens,  men  of  age  and 
character,  countenance  their  conduct?" 


20  2  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

"  Well,  no,  not  exactly ;  but  still  they  are  their 
apologists.  The  fact  is,  the  existence  of  slavery  in 
this  country  demoralized  everybody.  The  blacks 
were  looked  upon  as  mere  brutes,  and  absolutely 
subject  to  their  masters.  The  great  change  which 
has  taken  place  is  distasteful  even  to  the  best  citi- 
zens here.  They  hate  the  negro  because  he  has 
obtained  his  freedom,  and  because  he  has  the  same 
legal  rights  with  themselves.  You'll  find  that 
they'll  never  get  over  it." 

"Wouldn't  it  be  dangerous  for  you  to  express 
such  convictions  here,  openly  ?" 

"  Of  course.  I  never  do  it  except  where  I  know 
it  is  safe.  I  know  it  is  safe  with  you,  because  I 
know  all  about  your  connection  with  this  case." 

"  Do  the  military  authorities  here  execise  any  in- 
fluence in  preserving  order  and  in  protecting  the 
negroes  ?  " 

"  Not  much.  They  ought  to,  but  do  not.  Look, 
for  instance,  at  this  man  Cullen.  What  protecti3n 
does  he  give  to  the  negroes  ?  Why,  if  you  had 
not  been  here  McKnight  would  not  have  been  ar- 
rested for  shooting  Evans.  Not  long  since  he  actu- 
ally had  a  negro  tied  to  a  tree  and  whipped,  by  a 
soldier,  on  complaint  of  a  white  man  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. The  negro  refused  to  work,  alleging  that 
he  could  get  no  wages.  Complaint  was  made  to 
the  commander  of  this  post,  who  had  him  tied 
up  and  whipped." 

"  Is  that  possible  ?     He  must  have  been  drunk." 

"  Quite  likely ;  but  when  was  he  ever  sober  ?] 
I'm  sure  not  long  at  a  time.     You'll  find  that  th( 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  203 

moment  you  leave  he'll  release  McKnight,  and 
there'll  be  no  more  of  it.  He'll  not  be  in  the  guard- 
house an  hour  after  you  leave." 

"  Well,  we've  provided  for  that.  We  are  going 
to  take  him  along." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  hope  he'll  never  come 
back.     This  place  will  be  well  rid  of  him." 

*' Are  you  a  native  of  this  State?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  born  here.  My  father,  though,  was 
a  Massachusetts  man  and  came  to  Florida  when 
quite  young.  He  married  here,  and  was  for  many 
years  engaged  in  the  lumber  business,  at  which  he 
made  a  good  deal  of  money.  He  often  thought  of 
going  back  to  his  native  State  ;  but  the  remem- 
brance of  its  severe  winters  deterred  him,  so  he 
lingered  in  this  sunny  clime  until  the  rebellion 
came  and  it  was  too  late.  He  never  held  a  slave, 
and  worked  with  his  own  hands  on  a  plantation 
near  here.  I  suppose  I  have  imbibed  his  feelings 
and  opinions,  though  he  has  always  been  exceed- 
ingly careful  about  expressing  them." 

"  Were  you  in  the  rebel  service  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  was  telegraph  operator  for  them.  I 
had  been  in  that  business  years  before.  After  the 
war  was  over,  I  obtained  this  position  here." 

"  Did  you  believe  in  their  cause  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not.  I  never  was  even  a  defender  of 
slavery.  But  I  had  either  to  go  in  the  capacity  I 
did  or  carry  a  musket.  I  preferred  the  former.  If 
I  had  undertaken  to  keep  out  of  the  rebel  army,  I 
would  have  been  obliged  to  hide  myself  in  the 
woods  with  the  chances  of  being  shot.  So  I  went  in." 


204  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

"  Well,  said  Brown,  "  I  must  leave  you.  I  am 
glad  to  have  met  you  and  heard  your  views  in  re- 
lation to  the  condition  of  things  here.  Good- 
morning." 

He  proceeded  to  the  hotel,  where  he  remained 
until  some  time  after  dinner,  and  then  went  again 
to  the  hospital.  Here  he  made  arrangements  with 
the  doctor  to  have  the  sergeant  conveyed  to  the 
station  in  ample  time  for  the  evening  train.  He 
then  called  upon  Captain  Cullen. 

CuUen  was  in  his  office  with  an  agent  of  the 
Freedmen's  Bureau,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Tal- 
lahassee. He  had  come  by  private  conveyance  and 
was  looking  after  the  interests  of  the  freedmen  in 
that  region.  He  was  assisting  the  commandant  of 
the  post  to  demolish  a  bottle  of  Wilson's  whisky. 
Both  were  already  quite  sensible  of  its  effects,  and 
were  discussing  affairs  of  State  with  great  animation. 

**  They  o't  never  t'  'av'  set  the  niggers  free,"  said 
Cullen.     "  I  never  tho't  'twas  constitutional." 

''Twarn't,"  replied  the  a  ent,  who  had  been  a 
lieutenant  in  the  invalid  corps,  "  but  it  can't  be 
help'd  now.  But  they'll  have  to  keep  straight.  I 
b'lieve  Johnson'U  keep  'em  up  to  the  chalk  line. 
I  tell  ye  he's  down  on  Radicals." 

"  Bully  fellow,  Andy  is,"  replied  Cullen,  with  a 
knowing  look,  **  I've  took  many  a  drink  with  him 
in  Tennessee.  None  'o  yer  babies  he  ain't.  I  tell 
ye  he  can  take  a  snorter." 

"  Captain  Cullen,"  interposed  Brown,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  start  in  the  train  which  leaves  here  at  four 
o'clock.      You    stated   your   intention   of  sending 


MOTHER   AND    SON.  205 

down  the  prisoner,  McKnight,under  guard,  to  Jack- 
sonville. Will  you  have  him  at  the  depot  in  time 
to  go  by  that  train  so  that  I  can  take  charge  of 
him  ?  "  Brown  thought  he  detected  a  slight  change 
in  the  captain's  countenance,  but  he  replied  promptly : 

"Yes,  sir,  I'll  have  him  there.  I  want  to  send 
him  in  the  train  you  go  in." 

The  doctor  in  charge  of  the  hospital  sent  Ser- 
geant Evans  to  the  depot  some  twenty  minutes  be- 
fore the  time  for  the  starting  of  the  train.  He  had 
made  all  necessary  provision  for  his  comfort.  A 
narrow  straw  bed  was  provided  for  him  to  lay  on, 
and  a  government  blanket  to  cover  him.  The  train 
consisted  of  two  rickety  old  passenger  cars  and  a 
half  dozen  freight  cars  loaded  with  cotton.  Behind 
these  was  one  entirely  empty,  which  was  being  sent 
back  to  Jacksonville,  and  into  it  the  wounded  man 
was  lifted.  His  two  comrades  were  allowed  to  oc- 
cupy it  with  him. 

The  train  would  now  start  in  ten  minutes,  and 
still  neither  Captain  Cullen  nor  the  guard  with  the 
prisoner  made  their  appearance.  Brown  began  to 
feel  uneasy,  and  re  nembered  the  expression  on  the 
captain's  countenance  when  he  had  mentioned  the 
matter  in  the  afternoon.  He  went  to  the  agent  and 
asked  if  Cullen  had  applied  for  transportation  for 
the  prisoner  and  guard. 

'"Yes,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "he  notified  me  an 
hour  ago  that  they  were  to  be  sent  down  on  this 
train." 

This  made  him  feel  easy,  and  he  waited  a  few 
minutes  longer.     Still  no   one  appeared,  and  the 

9* 


2o6  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

train  would  start  in  a  few  minutes.  He  then  asked 
the  conductor  to  detain  it  ten  minutes.  This  was 
not  an  unusual  thing  on  Southern  railroads,  and 
that  official  readily  consented.  A  soldier,  who  was 
at  the  station,  was  dispatched  to  head-quarters  to 
ascertain  if  they  were  coming.  He  returned  and 
said  they  would  be  there  "  in  two  minutes." 
This  gave  fresh  hope,  but  ten  minutes  elapsed  and 
they  did  not  come — so  the  train  moved  off. 

Captain  Brown  felt  that  he  had  been  badly  sold ; 
but  there  seemed  to  be  no  remedy.  Evidently, 
Cullen  had  not  intended  to  send  the  prisoner  down 
at  all,  and  in  all  probability  would  release  him.  He 
had  invented  the  plan  in  order  to  prevent  intelli- 
gence from  being  transmitted  to  Colonel  Sprague, 
and  did  not  intend  that  the  prisoner  should  pass 
into  his  hands.  The  only  thing  that  could  be 
done  now  was  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  the 
latter  officer. 

The  train  arrived  at  Jacksonville  after  dark,  and 
the  wounded  man  was  carried  into  the  dwelling  of 
a  colored  man  near  by,  to  remain  until  morning, 
when  permanent  quarters  could  be  secured.  His 
comrades  remained  to  take  care  of  him. 

Captain  Brown  sought  the  quarters  of  Colonel 
Sprague  and  laid  the  whole  matter  before  him. 
Beginning  with  his  first  arrival  at  Gainesville,  he 
related  all  that  had  occurred  until  he  left,  and  how 
he  had  intended  to  telegraph  concerning  the  affair, 
but  had  been  deceived  by  a  promise  that  the 
prisoner  would  be  sent  down  on  the  train. 

When  he  had  concluded,  the  commandant  of 


MOTHER   AND    SON.  207 

the  District  of  Florida  was  in  a  high  state  of  ex- 
citement. He  walked  the  floor  of  his  office  back 
and  forth,  considerably  agitated,  swearing  vigor- 
ously.    At  length  he  said  : 

"Such  a  state  of  things  is  perfectly  damnable; 
but  what  am  I  to  do?  The  government  requires 
me  to  keep  up  all  these  posts,  and  each  one  must 
have  a  commissioned  officer.  I  hav'nt  enough  to 
fill  them  all  now,  and  keep  what  are  needed  here. 
This  man  ought  to  be  dismissed  from  the  service 
at  once,  and  I  would  do  it  if  I  had  any  one  to  take 
his  place ;  but  I  hav'nt,  so  I  must  keep  him." 

"  Orderly,"  said  the  colonel,  "  I  want  you  to  go 
to  the  telegraph  office.  Here,  I'll  send  a  dispatch," 
and  he  wrote  off  a  dispatch  and  handed   it  to  him. 

The  orderly  started  off,  but  soon  returned  with 
the  intelligence  that  they  could  get  no  answer  from 
Gainesville,  the  office  being  closed. 

**  Then,"  said  the  colonel,  "  we  can  accomplish 
nothing  to-night.  I'll  send  up  early  in  the 
morning." 

In  the  morning  word  was  received  from  Gaines- 
ville that  McKnight  had  escaped  from  the  guard- 
house. Everybody  who  knew  anything  about  the 
affair  believed  he  was  purposely  let  go,  but  the 
affair  was  allowed  to  die  out  without  an  investiga- 
tion. 

Sergeant  Evans  was  not  admitted  to  the  post 
hospital  at  Jacksonville,  as  not  being  in  the  ser- 
vice he  could  not  be,  by  the  rules,  but  was  placed 
in  a  freedman's  hospital  which  had  been,  some  time 
previously,  established  there.     He  remained  there, 


2o8  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

however,  but   a   few    days,    and    was    taken   to    a 
private  house,  belonging  to  a  well-to-do   colored 
man  of  the  town,  situated  near  the  outskirts,  where 
he  had  all  the  comfort  and  attention  that  coald  beJ 
bestowed  on  him,  at  a  comparatively  trifling  cost.l 

Dr.  H.  Byrne,  surgeon  of  the  post,  a  most  ex- 
cellent and  amiable  man,    at  the  instance  of  Cap-J 
tain  Brown,  with   whom  he  was  well  acquainted,: 
consented  to  take  charge  of  his  case,  and  gave  him^ 
every  attention. 

His    case   seemed   a   very   peculiar    one.     Th< 
bullet   had    evidently    penetrated    to   some  point 
where  it  was  doing  him  a  serious  injury  and  might; 
prove  fatal ;  but  exactly  where  that  was  the  surgeon 
could  not  determine.     To  add  to  the   difficulty  of 
his  case,  he  was  attacked  with  chills  and  fever,  the 
prevailing  disease  of  the   region,   and  was  gradu-" 
ally    growing    weaker    and    thinner.      Dr.    Byrne  i 
seemed  much  puzzled  with   his  case,  and  evidently- 
contemplated  the  possibility  of  an  unfavorable  ter-| 
mination. 

Still  he  was  cheerful,  and  could  sit  up  and  occa-^ 
sionally  take  some  nourishment.  He  conversed 
freely,  and  looked  forward  anxiously  to  the  arrival 
of  his  mother. 

"  I  told  her  in  the  letter  to  inquire  for  you,  cap'n," 
said  he  one  day  to  Brown,  "  I  knew  she  could  find 
your  office  very  easy." 

"  That  was  right.  I'll  bring  her  up  when  she 
comes." 

Some  two  weeks  after  the  return  from  Gaines- 
ville, Brown  was  seated  in  his  office  near  the  wharf, 


i 


MOTHER   AND    SON-  209 

where  the  steamers  that  brought  the  Northern 
mails  and  passengers  landed,  when  he  heard  the 
shrill  whistle  of  a  steamer,  and  looking  out  at  the 
window,  saw  the  "Cosmopolitan"  approaching. 
There  was  a  general  rush  toward  the  wharf,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  the  newsboys  were  crying  "  Tribune'' 
and  "  Herald^'  through  the  streets,  these  being  the 
only  Northern  papers  the  people  cared  to  read. 
Providing  himself  with  a  Tribune,  he  began  to  look 
over  the  news. 

The  day  was  pleasant  and  the  door  of  the  office 
stood  partly  open.  Presently  a  colored  woman, 
neatly  dressed,  came  up  to  it,  and  looking  cau- 
tiously in,  inquired : 

"  Is  this  Cap'n  Brown's  office  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply.     "  Come  in." 

Stepping  cautiously  inside  the  door  she  again 
inquired: 

"Are  you  Cap'n  Brown?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  Sergeant 
Evans  ?" 

"Yes,  I  can;  are  you  his  mother?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Well,  come  in  and  sit  down.  I'll  send  some 
one  to  show  you  the  way." 

The  woman  came  in  and  took  a  seat  in  a  quiet 
and  undemonstrative  manner.  She  was  well  up  in 
life,  probably  sixty  years  old,  but  still  vigorous 
and  active.  Her  complexion  was  of  a  dark 
brown,  and  her  face  bore  marks  of  great  strength 
of  character. 


2IO  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

Her  eye  was  large  and  earnest,  and  her  general 
air  that  of  one  who,  whatever  her  hand  might  find 
to  do,  done  it  with  all  her  might.  Captain  Brown 
observed  a  striking  resemblance  between  her  and 
her  son. 

"  Cap'n"  said  she,  in  a  low,  earnest  voice,  "how 
is  the  sergeant  ?" 

"  He's  still  poorly ;  I  hope  he's  not  dangerous." 

Brown  sent  a  negro,  who  often  attended  to 
such  business,  on  board  the  boat  to  get  the  woman's 
baggage,  for  which  she  had  a  check.  Feeling  some 
curiosity  to  witness  the  meeting  of  mother  and 
son,  he  determined  to  accompany  her  himself  So 
he  told  her  he  would  go  with  her  and  show  her 
where  the  sergeant  was. 

Up  through  the  streets  of  the  town,  over  the 
plank  walks  to  the  outskirts,  and  then  through  the 
sand,  ankle-deep,  they  went.  At  length  they 
reached  a  neat  frame  house  with  water-oaks  and 
maples  in  front,  and  here  they  paused.  Brown  told 
the  woman  to  remain  outsic'e  \^hi]e  1  e  er.leud  cU 
prepared  her  son  for  the  interview.  She  made  no 
answer,  but  stood  motionless.  Opening  the  door 
of  the  room,  he  passed  in.  Sergeant  Evans  was 
lying  in  bed  and  1  ooked  emaciated  and  careworn 
The  moment  he  saw  Captain  Brown's  face,  he  said, 
eagerly : 

"I  heard  the  steamer's  whistle,  cap'n;  has  mother 
come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  is  here.     Shall  I  bring  her  in  ? " 

"Oh,  yes,  let  her  come  in." 

The  door  was  opened  and  the  woman  entered. 


MOTHER    AND    SON.  211 

The  moment  he  saw  her  he  stretched  out  his  arms, 
eagerly,  Hke  a  child,  and  cried,  "Oh  !  mother  !" 

She  tottered  forward  to  the  bedside,  sank  in  his 
arms,  and  covering  his  face  with  kisses,  sobbed  out, 
'*0h  !  Charley,  Charley,  my  God  !  is  this  you  ?" 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


HOME   AT    LAST. 

"  Our  lives  are  rivers  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathom'd,  boundless  sea. 

The  silent  grave  I 
Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 

In  one  dark  wave." 


Captain  Brown  passed  quietly  out  of  the  room, 
and  closing  the  door,  left  mother  and  son  by  them- 
selves. The  negro  just  at  that  moment  came  up 
with  the  trunk,  and  inquired  what  he  should  do 
with  it.  He  was  directed  to  leave  it  on  the  porch, 
and  Brown  gave  him  fifty  cents,  with  which  he  went 
on  his  way  rejoicing. 

As  he  stepped  down  from  the  porch,  he  glanced 
carelessly  at  the  direction  on  the  trunk.  It  was 
written  in  a  large,  plain  hand,  and  could  be  read  at 
a  distance  readily :  "  Mary  Evans,  Jacksonville, 
Florida." 

"  Poor  woman,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
closed  the  yard-gate,  and  started  toward  home. 
"  I'm  afraid  she'll  never  see  her  son  in  the  North 
again  ;  he  looks  badly  to-day." 

The  sergeant  seemed  to  be  gradually  wearing 
out.  Day  by  day  he  grew  thinner  and  weaker,  and 
the  utmost  skill  of  his  physician  appeared  to  be  of 
no  avail.  Poor  fellow!  he  bore  up  nobly  and  never 
gave  any  indications  of  despair,  but  his  friends  be- 
gan to  feel  that  his  case  was  not  an  encouraging 
one-,  and  feared  the  worst. 

212 


HOME    AT    LAST.  213 

As  Brown  passed  near  Dr.  Byrne's  quarters,  he 
determined  to  drop  in  and  hear  his  opinion  again 
concerning  his  patient.  He  had  heard  it  twenty- 
times  before,  but  hoped,  without  any  good  reason, 
that  this  time  it  might  be  more  favorable.  So  he 
turned  in  toward  the  snug  Httle  frame  house  where 
the  doctor  could  always  be  found  when  not  on  duty, 
and  was  informed  by  an  orderly  that  he  was  inside. 

So,  being  on  intimate  terms,  he  walked  in,  and 
found  Dr.  Byrne  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  the 
Tribune. 

"  Well,  doctor,  I've  just  been  taking  some  medi- 
cine to  one  of  your  patients ;  thought  I'd  stop  and 
let  you  know." 

"  What  patient  ?" 

"  Sergeant  Evans." 

"  What  medicine  have  you  been  taking  him  ?" 

"  His  mother." 

"Ha!  ha!"  looking  slightly  relieved,  "  I'm  glad 
of  that ;  I'm  right  glad  she's  come,"  laying  down 
the  Tribune  on  a  small  pine  table  close  by ;  "  the 
sergeant  has  been  worrying  himself  about  her,  and 
I  think  it  has  contributed  to  prevent  his  improve- 
ment. Do  you  know,  Brown,  that  I  have  been 
somewhat  discouraged  about  his  case  of  late?" 

"  I  feared  as  much." 

"  It  is  one  of  those  cases,"  resumed  the  doctor, 
"  in  which  medical  skill  can  do  nothing  beyond 
keeping  up  healthy  conditions  as  much  as  possible, 
and  trusting  to  nature  for  the  result." 

*'  When  do  you  intend  to  see  him  again  ?" 


214  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

''To-morrow  morning.  It  is  now  near  four 
o'clock,  and  I  cannot  go  to-day." 

"  By  the  way,  doctor,"  said  Brown,  "  did  you 
ever  meet  anything  in  your  career  that  seemed  to 
sharpen  your  recollection  of  long-past  events  and 
carry  you,  seemingly,  to  the  very  verge  of  remem- 
bering something  important,  connected,  apparently, 
with  that  which  set  in  motion  this  new  current  of 
thought,  and  yet  stubbornly  refused  to  enlighten 
you  any  further  ;  leaving  you  floundering  between 
the  known  and  unknown  in  a  most  uncomfortable 
and  ludicrous  position?" 

"  No,  sir  ;  but  pray,  why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Because  I  find  myself  in  just  such  a  predica- 
ment. I  have  no  reason  to  believe  I  ever  saw  Ser- 
geant Evans  until  I  came  to  Florida,  a  few  months 
ago  ;  nor  have  I  the  slightest  reason  for  believing 
I  ever  laid  eyes  upon  his  mother  until  after  the  ar- 
rival of  the  '  Cosmopolitan'  this  afternoon,  but  there 
is  something  about  him,  and  also  something  about 
her,  that  is  forever  reminding  me  of  things  that  are 
on  the  very  verge  of  memory,  that  float  over  and 
hover  about  the  boundary  line  between  the  known 
and  unknown,  and  seem  to  be  on  the  point  of  tak- 
ing up  a  connecting  thread  between  the  present 
and  the  past ;  but  it  is  never  quite  reached.  What 
is  it?" 

"  It's  nonsense.  Brown,  an  article  that  you're 
never  at  a  loss  for,"  said  the  doctor,  indulging  in  a 
hearty  laugh.  "  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  now  if 
that  was  some  vague  notion  you'd  gathered  up  in 
that  book  I  saw  laying  on  your  table  the  other  day. 


HOME   AT   LAST.  215 

What's  this  its  title  is  ?  *  Footsteps  on  the  Bound- 
ary of  Another  World?'  Well,  there's  where  it 
came  from.  There's  nothing  in  it,  Brown  ;  no,  sir! 
not  a  thing." 

"  Well,  I  think  differently,"  said  Brown,  "a  good 
deal  annoyed  by  this  unexpected  reception  of  his 
pet  theory,  "  but  time  will  show  who's  right." 

"  Of  course  it  will,"  laughed  the  doctor,  "  it  al- 
ways does.  But  I've  noticed  it  never  shows  much 
favor  to  these  vague,  undefined  dreams  or  baseless 
theories,  and  I  s'pose  it  won't  soon  begin.  But, 
Brown,  that  sergeant  seems  to  be  a  noble  fellow. 
I've  taken  a  strong  liking  to  him,  and  have  done 
all  in  my  power,  and  will  continue  to  do  all  I  can, 
to  help  him  through.  I  never  met  with  a  negro  to 
whom  I  was  so  favorably  inclined.  What  kind  of 
a  woman  does  his  mother  seem  to  be  ?  " 

"Very  much  like  him.  There's  a  striking  re- 
semblance between  the  two." 

"Aye,  that's  it  then,  the  old  story.  I  believe 
every  man  that  has  anything  in  him  worth  while 
gets  it  from  his  mother.  Well,  I'm  glad  she's  here. 
It  can't  help  but  do  him  some  good." 

The  conversation  here  ended,  and  Brown  left, 
while  the  doctor  wended  his  way  to  the  hospital  to 
make  his  usual  afternoon  rounds  among  the  patients. 

Early  the  next  forenoon  Brown  directed  his  foot- 
steps toward  the  house  where  Sergeant  Evans  and 
his  mother  were.  Just  before  he  reached  the  house 
Doctor  Byrne  came  out ;  as  they  met  he  said : 

"  Good-morning,   Brown ;   going  in  to  see  our 


21 6  JOHN   AND    MARY. 

patient  ?  I  think  the  medicine  you  brought  has 
improved  him." 

•'  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  doctor.  I'll  go  in  and  see 
how  he  looks." 

Opening  the  door  quietly,  he  saw  the  sick  man, 
well  propped  up  with  pillows,  looking  happier  than 
he  had  done  for  some  days  past.  The  room  looked 
neat  and  cheerful,  and  a  vase  of  beautiful  flowers 
stood  in  the  window  near  his  bedside. 

His  mother  had  evidently  taken  a  good  deal  of 
pains  to  make  everything  as  comfortable  and  home- 
like as  possible  ;  and  considering  the  limited  means 
at  her  command,  had  succeeded  admirably. 

Still  she  did  not  look  cheerful,  though  evidently 
struggling  to  appear  so.  It  was  apparent  that  she 
had  found  her  son  in  much  worse  condition  than 
she  had  expected. 

After  inquiring  of  the  sergeant  how  he  had  passed 
the  night,  and  talking  awhile  with  the  woman 
concerning  her  voyage,  Brown  asked  if  she  was  a 
native  of  Philadelphia. 

*'  No,  sir.     I  was  born  in  Maryland." 

"  Were  you  a  slave  there,  Mrs.  Evans  ?" 

The  woman  hesitated ;  for  years  upon  years  she 
had  been  so  reticent  on  this  subject  that  even 
now,  when  she  knew  the  necessity  for  it  had  passed 
away,  she  at  first  declined  to  speak  of  her  former 
condition.  She  recovered  from  this,  however,  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  said  : 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was  a  slave  ;  but  my  husband  and  I 
escaped  into  Pennsylvania  some  thirty-five  years 
ago.     Charley,  there,  was   a   little   child,   scarcely 


HOME   AT   LAST.  217 

more  than  a  year  old,  and  him  I  carried  in  my 
arms  for  many  a  weary  night.  I  never  would  have 
got  away  though  except  for  one  blessed  old  man 
that  lived  over  in  Pennsylvania,  near  the  line." 

"  What  part  of  Pennsylvania  ?"  inquired  Brown, 
his  curiosity  now  excited. 

**  In  Lancaster  county." 

"  In  Lancaster  county  ?  are  you  sure  ?"  asked 
Brdwn,  a  little  incredulously.  "I'm  from  Lancas- 
ter county  myself." 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  lived  in  Lancaster  county.  We 
crossed  the  river  at  Conowingo bridge.  I've  looked 
at  the  map  a  thousand  times  since,  and  can't  be 
mistaken." 

"And  who  was  this  old  man  you  speak  of,"  in- 
quired Brown,  his  curiosity  now  raised  to  the 
highest  pitch. 

"  Davy  McCann." 

Brown  started  from  his  chair  and  glared  at  the 
woman  for  a  moment  almost  incredulously  ;  but  it 
was  for  a  moment  only.  With  the  speed  of  thought 
that  magic  name  carried  his  memory  back  into  the 
almost  forgotten  past,  and,  unlocking  its  portals, 
revealed  long  past  events  in  undimmed  distinct- 
ness. Walking  across  the  floor  a  few  times  in  deep 
thought,  he  turned  to  the  woman  and  asked : 

"  Is  your  name  Mary  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Was  your  husband's  name  John  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Are  you  the  woman  that  Davy  McCann  brought 
to  Brown's,   at   Brown's   fording,   one   dark   night 


2l8  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

about  thirty-five  years  ago,  with  your  husband  and 
a  Httle  child  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  that  the  boy  ?"  pointing  to  the  sergeant. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  you  remember  of  sitting  on  the  cellar 
steps  m  the  old  kitchen,  with  Charley  clasped  in 
your  arms,  while  the  people  from  camp-meeting 
were  passing  by,  almost  frightened  to  death  for  fear 
some  of  them  were  after  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  woman,  now  beginning 
to  look  as  much  surprised  as  her  questioner. 

"  And  were  you  captured  while  there,  and  res- 
cued ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  remember  all  that;  but  how  do 
you  come  to  know  anything  about  it  ?" 

"Do  you  remember  a  little  boy,  about  five  or 
six  years  old,  at  Brown's  while  you  were  there  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.     His  name  was  Frank." 

"  Well,  you're  looking  at  him  now.  I'm  that 
boy." 

The  woman  seemed  utterly  bewildered,  and 
could  only  exclaim,  "  'Fore  God !"  and  sank  back 
in  a  chair. 

Brown  remembered  his  conversation  with  Doctor 
Byrne  the  previous  afternoon,  and  exulting  in  the 
vindication  of  his  theory,  which  to-day's  revelation 
had  brought  out,  determined  to  seek  out  that  in- 
dividual and  give  him  a  surprise.  So  he  bade  the 
sergeant  and  his  mother  good-morning,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  doctor's  quarters. 

He  was,  as  usual,  engaged  in  reading  when  his 


HOME   AT    LAST, 


219 


friend  entered.  Looking  up,  he  inquired  of  Brown 
what  he  thought  of  the  sergeant  now  ? 

Without  seeming  to  hear  the  remark  at  all,  that 
individual  broke  out: 

"See  here,  old  fellow,  what  do  think  of  'vague 
theories,'  *  baseless  dreams'  and  all  such  like  ?  Noth- 
ing in  'em,  ever,  I  'spose  ?  Of  course  there  aint. 
Mind  what  you  said  yesterday  ?  I  told  you  time 
would  show.  So  it  has.  Just  listen  to  me ;"  and 
he  sat  down  and  rattled  off  the  whole  story  as 
learned  from  the  woman  a  short  time  before. 

The  doctor  listened  attentively,  and  with  evident 
interest.  When  his  voluble  friend  had  concluded, 
he  remarked  : 

"  Well,  this  is  all  very  interesting,  indeed ;  but 
there  is  nothing  mysterious  in  your  having  some 
idea  that  you  had  met  or  seen  these  people  before. 
The  recollection  of  some  peculiar  expression  of 
countenance  was  fixed  in  your  memory,  and  though 
blurred  and  rendered  indistinct  by  the  lapse  of 
time,  only  required  some  well-defined  fact  with 
which  that  recollection  was  associated  to  bring  it 
out  clearly  and  plainly.  But,  leaving  that  out  of 
the  question,  this  is  really  a  remarkable  affair. 
Many  a  highly-wrought  romance  has  been  founded 
on  far  less  substantial  foundation.  You  should  go 
to  work  and  write  it  out." 

"  Yes,  it's  likely  I'd  do  that.  A  fellow  who  hardly 
has  patience  to  write  a  letter." 

**  Well,  get  some  one  else  to  do  it.  There's  cer- 
tainly a  fine  opportunity  here." 

With  this  remark  the  two  parted.  Brown  going 


2  20  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

to  his  office,  where  he  remained  until  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

Toward  evening  he  again  wended  his  way  to  the 
sick  man's  quarters.  He  felt  a  new  interest  in  the 
fate  of  these  people,  whom  accident  had  thrown  so 
strangely,  and  at  periods  so  remote  from  each  other, 
across  his  track.  He  determined  to  learn  some- 
thing of  their  history  during  the  intervening  time. 

Seating  himself,  he  asked  Mary  if  she  would  re- 
late the  principal  events  that  had  happened  to  her 
and  the  kind  of  life  she  had  led  since  the  night  she 
and  John  and  the  little  boy  started  out  into  the 
darkness  with  Davy  McCann,  so  many  years  ago. 
The  woman  seemed  quite  willing  to  comply,  and 
seating  herself,  made,  in  substance,  the  following 
statement : 

''After  we  left  Brown's  that  night  we  traveled  as 
rapidly  as  we  could  in  a  north-easterly  direction. 
We  used  public  roads  but  little ;  but  went  on  through 
woods  and  fields,  following  by-paths  with  which 
Davy  seemed  perfectly  familiar.  Indeed,  some- 
times there  was  not  even  a  path  to  guide  us  ;  but 
he  was  never  at  a  loss,  going  straight  on  while  we 
followed.  Near  morning  we  stopped  at  a  farm- 
house, and  the  old  man  called  up  the  owner  and 
told  him  who  we  were.  He  had  frequently  stopped 
there  before,  and  we  were  at  once  made  welcome. 
The  people  proved  to  be  Quakers,  and  soon  pro- 
vided us  with  an  ample  meal  and  put  us  to  bed, 
where  we  slept  away  most  of  the  day.  The  next 
night  the  same  thing  was  repeated,  and  we  reached 
a  house  toward  morning  situated   somewhere  in 


HOME    AT    LAST.  221 

Bucks  county.  The  people  here  were  also  Quak- 
ers. Here  our  connection  with  Davy  McCann 
ceased.  I  heard  some  years  after  that  he  was 
dead,  and  felt  that  I  had  lost  my  best  friend  on 
earth. 

"  We  got  places  to  work  in  this  neighborhood, 
and  began  to  feel  pretty  secure  and  comfortable, 
but  during  the  winter  which  followed,  John,  my 
husband,  took  sick  and  died.  He  had  a  severe  at- 
tack of  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  and  not  being  very 
strong,  sunk  under  it." 

Here  Mary  paused,  and  dropping  a  tear,  was 
silent  for  a  few  moments.  Resuming  the  thread  of 
her  narrative,  she  said  that  she  remained  here  for 
nearly  a  year,  and  was  much  attached  to  the  lady 
who  was  her  employer.  It  happened,  however, 
that  the  woman's  sister,  who  was  connected  with 
the  management  of  a  larg^  female  boarding-school 
in  the  vicinity  of  Philadelphia,  came  up  there  on  a 
visit,  and  taking  a  fancy  to  Mary,  asked  her  to  come 
and  live  with  her,  promising  her  good  wages,  and 
in  addition,  to  learn  her  the  common  branches  of 
education. 

This  was  a  temptation  not  to  be  resisted,  for 
above  all  things  she  longed  to  know  how  to  read 
and  write.  So  with  her  employer's  consent  she 
accompanied  this  lady  to  her  pleasant  and  beautiful 
home  near  the  city. 

Here  she  remained  for  many  years,  and  not 
only  learned  to  read  and  write,  but  formed  quite  a 
taste  for  literary  acquirements.  Her  constant  con- 
tact with  persons  of  good  education  had  also  a  per* 


222  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

ceptible  effect  on  her  mind  and  conversation,  and 
she  fell  gradually  into  the  habit  of  using  such 
language  as  prevailed  in  society  of  that  character. 
During  her  residence  here  she  accumulated  con- 
siderable means.  She  received  very  good  wages, 
all  of  which  she  saved  ;  besides,  she  received  many 
presents  from  the  boarders,  all  of  whom  were  kind 
to  her. 

Here  Charley,  also,  had  a  fine  opportunity  to  ob- 
tain an  education,  which  he  improved  by  every 
means  in  his  power.  When  they  left  he  was  six- 
teen years  of  age,  and  had  what  would  be  called 
anywhere  a  good  common  education. 

During  all  this  time  they  had  never  been  mo- 
lested by  slave-hunters,  and,  indeed,  the  fear  of  it 
had  almost  entirely  passed  away. 

After  remaining  here  for  nearly  fifteen  years,  the 
good  woman  who  had  employed  her  sickened  and 
died,  and  Mary  felt  that  she  was  again  nearly  alone 
in  the  world. 

But  an  acquaintance  of  the  woman's,  residing  in 
the  city,  who  had  often  seen  Mary,  and  knew  her 
value,  urgently  solicited  her  to  come  and  live  with 
her,  to  which  she  at  length  consented. 

Here  she  remained  for  many  years,  while  Char- 
ley obtained  a  situation  as  laborer  at  a  large  whole- 
sale house,  where  he  gave  excellent  satisfaction  and 
received  good  wages. 

After  some  years,  however,  Mary  grew  weary  of 
constant  labor  ;  so  she  and  Charley  purchased,  with 
their  combined  earnings,  a  comfortable  little  home 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  to  which  she  removed. 


HOME    AT    LAST. 


223 


Here  she  did  washing  and  ironing,  and  made  a  good 
living.  Charley  boarded  with  her  and  things  went 
on  as  pleasantly  as  they  well  could  do. 

So  the  world  found  them  at  the  breaking  out  of 
the  war.  They  took  tlie  papers  and  read  them 
carefully,  and  understood  fully  the  causes  which 
brought  it  about.  She  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
at  last  to  strike  the  death-blow  to  slavery,  but  oh  ! 
it  was  more  than  she  could  bear  that  her  son  should 
be  one  to  fill  the  breach. 

But  as  time  rolled  on,  and  the  red  tide  of  war 
surged  back  and  forth,  and  doubt  and  division  be- 
gan to  arise  in  the  North,  and  the  necessity  for 
arming  the  colored  people  became  apparent,  she 
began  to  feel  that  even  he  was  not  too  precious  a 
gift  to  lay  upon  the  altar  of  freedom. 

So  when  they  began  to  enlist  colored  troops  in 
Philadelphia,  Charley  joined  them,  with  his  mother's 
consent,  and  left  for  the  seat  of  war  with  her  most 
fervent  blessings. 

"  I  never  was  a  praying  woman  before,  cap'n," 
said  she  in  conclusion,  **  but  after  he  left  me  I  some- 
times spent  whole  nights  on  my  knees.  When  the 
war  was  over,  and  I  knew  he  was  safe  through  it, 
I  felt  as  though  I  never  could  thank  God  enough." 

Silence  fell  on  the  group  when  Mary  ended  her 
story.  The  deep'ning  shadows  of  evening  gradu- 
ally thickened  into  the  darker  curtain  of  night,  and 
the  sick  man,  weak  and  weary,  fell  asleep.  With- 
out a  word  Brown  noiselessly  opened  the  door  and 
passed  out  into  the  darkness. 

Days  passed,  as  they  will,  swiftly  away.     The 


2  24  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

wounded  man  grew  thinner  and  weaker,  and  Dr. 
Byrne  at  length  reluctantly  told  his  friend  that  there 
was  no  hope.  The  mother  asked  no  questions, 
and  made  no  sign  ;  but  her  instincts,  deeper  and 
truer  than  the  physician's  art,  told  her  that  her  son 
was  dying.  Still  she  relaxed  no  exertion.  More 
tenderly  than  ever,  with  a  closer  industry  and  a 
more  untiring  hand  she  barred  every  approach  of 
the  king  of  terrors.  Every  morning,  by  daylight, 
it  mattered  not  whether  sleep  had  visited  her  eye- 
lids, she  could  be  found  in  the  little  market-house 
by  the  river  side,  se  lecting  the  choicest  and  finest 
oranges  for  Charley.  Through  the  long  days  she 
watched  his  every  movement,  attended  to  the 
slightest  want,  and  studied  every  opportunity  for 
his  comfort.  As  he  grew  weak  and  almost  help- 
less, he  relied  upon  her  as  wholly  as  though  he 
were  an  infant. 

Late  one  afternoon,  in  the  month  of  Feburary, 
Capt.  Brown  was  making  his  way  to  the  house 
where  Sergeant  Evans  lay.  Meeting  Dr.  Byrne 
some  distance  from  the  place,  he  observed  an  un- 
usual expression  on  his  countenance.  Not  ventur- 
ing to  ask  whit  it  meant  he  merely  looked  an 
inquiry. 

"Hj's  dying,"  said  the  doctor,  and  passed  on. 

Browp  soon  reached  the  house  and  entered.  It 
needed  no  second  look  to  verify  the  doctor's  state- 
ment. The  sergeant  was  indeed  dying.  The  last  day 
or  two  had  v.^rought  a  fearful  change  in  his  appear- 
ance. Still  Iij  was  sensible  and  knjw  those  around 
him.     T!ie  proprietor  of  the  house,  with  his  wife 


HOME    AT    LAST.  225 

and  two  or  three  colored  persons,  were  in  the 
room.  Looking  up,  as  Brown  came  in,  he  mur- 
mured, "  Good-bye,  cap'n,  I'm  going,"  and  made  a 
faint  effort  to  hold  out  his  hand.  Brown  approached 
and  took  it,  but  he  had  no  word  to  utter. 

His  mother  sat  by  the  bedside  on  a  chair,  her 
hand  resting  in  his,  and  her  eyes  never  for  a 
moment  leaving  his  face.  She  looked  the  picture 
of  cold,  stony  despair ;  but  her  lips  uttered  no 
sound,  and  her  eye  was  as  dry  as  the  sands  of  the 
desert.  For  some  time  the  dying  man  lay  still, 
apparently  sleeping.  At  length  his  eyes  slowly 
opened,  and  rested  for  a  moment  steadily  on  his 
mother's  face,  an  expression  almost  angelic  flitted 
across  his  countenance,  and  he  faintly  murmured, 
"  Mother." 

This  was  too  much  for  Mary,  and  reaching  over 
she  pressed  her  lips  frantically  against  his  fore- 
head, now  almost  cold.  A  convulsive  shiver  passed 
over  his  frame,  his  chest  heaved,  his  eye  grew  dim, 
and  there  was  silence — he  was  dead. 

On  a  hill-side  sloping  northward  from  the  town, 
in  a  neat  inclosure,  where  reposed  the  dead  heroes 
of  the  Union  army.  Sergeant  Evans  was  buried. 
Clothed  in  his  soldier's  uniform,  with  the  flag  of 
his  country  wrapped  around  him,  he  was  laid 
silently  and  sorrowfully  away.  Many  citizens  of 
the  place  and  a  number  of  officers  of  the  Federal 
army  followed  him  to  his  final  resting-place.  His 
mother  was  there,  and  the  kind-hearted  colored 
people  of  the  place  gave  her  every  attention,  but 
she  seemed  to  heed  it  not.     Her  heart  was  in  the 


2  26  JOHN    AND    MARY. 

grave  with  her  fondly-loved  and  ever-to-be-remem- 
bered Charley. 

After  the  funeral  she  seemed  to  droop,  and  gave 
evidence  of  rapidly  declining  health.  She  uttered 
no  complaint,  nor  did  she  speak  of  her  loss;  but 
twice  every  day  she  visited  his  grave  and  busied 
herself  with  planting  beautiful  flowers  on  that 
sacred  spot.  Captain  Brown  suggested  to  her  one 
day  the  idea  of  returning  North ;  but  she  scarcely 
noticed  his  remark. 

Dr.  Byrne  visited  her  frequently  and  gave  her 
occasionally  some  medicine,  though  he  had  but 
little  confidence  in  it  doing  her  any  good.  Day  by 
day  she  grew  weaker,  but  still  she  tottered  back 
and  forth,  morning  and  evening,  to  the  spot  that  to 
her  was  the  most  sacred  on  earth,  each  day's  jour- 
ney carrying  her  nearer  home.  At  length  the 
turning-point  was  reached,  and  the  long-suffering 
and  noble  woman  sank  beneath  her  griefs.  Peace- 
fully as  a  child  she  entered  the  dark  valley,  and 
looking  forward  with  earnest  gaze  into  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  her  lips  rnurmured  "  Charley,"  and 
closed  forever. 

Gently  and  lovingly,  the  people  who  had  learned 
to  love  and  respect  her,  laid  her  beside  her  son. 
There  the  two  noble  hearts  repose.  Through  tur- 
moil and  trouble,  through  perils  and  dangers,  with 
hearts  untainted,  happy  rather  as  the  victims  than 
the  doers  of  wrong,  they  have  reached  home  at 

LAST. 

THE  END. 


